The Lottery
by Cat's Dog
Summary: With the Viscount dead and Kirkwall in the midst of an economic crisis, Knight-Commander Meredith hopes to offset the damage of the power vacuum by holding profitable lottery. When a Templar disappears in a sudden and violent attack in Lowtown, however, the stakes are raised and the Templars find their hold on the city slipping into possible revolution. Set between Acts 2 and 3.
1. Prologue

The morning's downpour had turned the streets of Kirkwall into a sloppy, muddied mess, creating a slurping noise whenever the steel covered boot of the fleeing templar fell and met the ground. It was as though the very earth was beginning to grapple at him, conspiring to snare him in place. Worst of all, he thought, the wet foot prints left thick, obvious signs of his flight, leading his pursuers right to him.

There was precious little time for actual thoughts, however. Ser Josain's entire mind was consumed by the simplest of concepts. Flee. Find help. Danger. Close. For a moment, however, the young Templar felt his thoughts beginning to mold, distracting from his desperate run. He was impossibly far from the Gallows, leaving help virtually a world away. He cursed himself for his own impetuous sense of adventure, of taking matters into his own hands, but the young man had grown tired of the constant jabs and barbs of the old and the grizzled. Soft Hands, they would call him, which he supposed was not the worst insult that could have been leveled against the son of an aristocrat who had fled his military service, but with his past chasing him as doggedly as his pursuers the sight of what seemed to be an obvious blood mage was enough to spur him to action. Soft Hands was going to finally put some callouses on his palms, dragging an apostate screaming back to the Circle.

Like the temptress that she was the woman, girl more like, led him with the lightest step through the streets, further into Lowtown, spinning her crimson robes about like an Orlesian ballet dancer, tossing back the occasional taunting giggle. Ser Josain had gripped the hilt of his sword so deathly tight that he had felt his knuckles turn bright white, his heart pounding at the prospect of subduing his first apostate.

She had led him down an alley and he was there to set upon her. At the end of the shadowed path, however, her allies seemed to have had other plans, brandishing crude weapons, the most sophisticated being a simple shiv that appeared to have been crafted from what was once a bigger blade, rope serving as a handle. Even in spite of his polished plate armor, Josain knew the odds were not in his favor. There were at least seven of them, maybe more, he did not bother to get an accurate count, did not even bother to insure he was still gripping his sword, and only as he turned down the road disparagingly known as Mummer's Street did he realize he did not even have that weapon with him anymore.

Caught up in his thoughts as he was the templar suddenly found his own feet to be his worst enemy. No longer devoting the entirety of his energy to his careful steps Josain felt his ankle twist painfully, a thick, disgusting pop heralding his sudden fall and unceremonious crash into the mud, covering his polished armor and matting his hair.

Instinctively, Josain wrapped his arms about his head in a desperate attempt to protect it from the onslaught of crude weapons that would no doubt be coming. He tensed up, clenching his teeth, anticipating the fatal blows, wondering for a moment if the Maker would mercifully take him before the worst of the pain set in. When nothing immediately happened he dared to open his eyes, then roll about on his back. He lowered his arms from his head and immediately became aware of the burning pain in his ankle.

No one was there. Had they abandoned him? Given up the chase and fled with their apostate in tow? Ser Josain did not dare to hope, not yet.

Quiet footfalls in the mud snapped his attention across the way, where a young, red haired girl watched him curiously. She was as flea bitten as any of the other low born of Mummer's Street and there was a fascination in her eye as she sized the fallen knight up. She scratched at her scalp while she stared at him, but barely seemed to acknowledge that he was anything more than an object.

Ser Josain lifted a finger to his lips and made a soft "shh" sound, fearful that she would give him away. Without making a sound, the little girl simply shook her head, her silent gesture doing little to put the fallen templar at ease.

All at once her head suddenly jerked down the alley, her small doe eyes widening before she disappeared into a crevice so wholly that Josain found himself questioning if she had ever been there at all. Only a moment too late did he think to look at what had startled her and the sight of the approaching men caused a twisted sinkhole to form in his stomach.

He tried to crawl away, looking the part of a pathetic sow stuck in the mud as he did so, his effort doing little more than buying him inches.

"Come after our friend will you?" the nearest man, wielding the shiv, said, a glint of a golden tooth caught in the moon light. His lips sneered in a twisted glee at the violence his weapon promised.

"Let me go..." the Templar pleaded, hand falling over hand as he tried to crawl away.

"The templar wants us to let him go," the marauder laughed, looking back at his massing comrades. Josain looked between them, seeing only contemptuous stares eyeing him back, their hate only challenged by the joy they got from mocking him. There was no sight, however, of the red robed woman he had chased that started the entire calamity he found himself in. For a moment Josain found himself silently cursing the cowardice of the apostates. "I wonder, little templar," the man with the knife continued, squatting down and gesturing it at the templar, "how many apostates have you let go like little birds? Little birds that just wanted to spread their wings and be free."

A lifetime of cowardice began to catch up to Josain. All at once he didn't care about anything else, not his vows, not the Chantry, not the cold, angry look his father would have when he heard that Josain had abandoned another post. All he could think about was the pain of that knife piercing his belly, the life extinguishing from his own eyes and whatever darkness waited beyond that. Staring down the man that reeked of bourbon and body odor made Josain care about nothing at that moment except somehow staying alive.

"Please..." he started through trembling lips. "I've never even caught a mage...I..."

"Listen here," the knife holder barked, swinging it in circles in front of Ser Josain's face. "I'm gonna' stick you with this blood letter here, and I'm going to find out if it's true templar's bleed blue, savvy?"

Josain yelped and swung forward with his right arm, but the man's friends were on the templar just as quickly as he had mustered the strength, kicking, clubbing and beating with a reckless abandon. In the moment of that searing, jarring pain all Josain could see was white as he felt his precious warm blood sink into the wet roads of Kirkwall.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Captain and the Templar

Tiber Hawke was beginning to appreciate the simpler aspects of living in Hightown. It was impossible to not appreciate a spacious mansion and to be waited on so that he could tend to affairs of both business and leisure, but he always struggled to acclimate to his surroundings once he stepped through his estate's enormous oak door into the perfumed air of high society. Isabella had insisted that he had commoner's blood in his veins, he wasn't cut out for the fancy shoes and silk dresses, but the longer he'd lived there the more he realized that that wasn't it.

Instead, he concluded, it was just _different_. Contrary to Isabella's romantic fantasies about the good hearted poor and their clash with the villains at the top, Hawke could not find himself yearning for the piss smelling slums of Lowtown again, nor the neighbors he had left behind. Instead Hightown was simply _different_. Having spent a life in one of Ferelden's least remarkable hamlets only to be spat out on the streets of Kirkwall, scratching a living through oddjobs and worse had left him accustomed to scraping, to settling.

In Hightown he wanted for nothing. His expedition into the Deep Roads had paid off in spades and now a day's labor was seen as beneath him or his family. After thinking long and hard about it Hawke realized that the feeling was restlessness. At the end of every action was the unsettling feeling that there was something more that needed to be done, an urgency to accomplish whatever task remained unfinished because to fail was to go hungry.

He still recalled the first week in the mansion as Bodahn, his Dwarven manservant, would spend as much time politely chastising his master for trying to fulfill such simple tasks as lighting his own candles or washing his own clothes.

"That's quite alright, Master Hawke," Bodahn would say in an identical tone every time he would catch the master of the house, "these ain't things for your doin'." Then without so much as a grimace or a lost beat Bodahn would insure that every candle was lit and the food was prepared on time.

Like an old sailor washed ashore Hawke was anxious at first, not quite missing but yearning the tedium of chores and the monotony of labor. It was difficult to walk among the patrons of Hightown as an equal after years of stepping aside for litters full of lords and casting his eyes on the ground to avoid confronting one of the proud knights coming to visit.

His rise had come so suddenly that there was a clash of cultures too different for him to easily adjust - and just as he had begun to the Qunari had started to burn down Kirkwall. Everything had happened so fast with the Arishok that to even remember the encounter seemed surreal, impossible to believe. To hear it told Hawke was sometimes uncertain if it were simply one of Varric's stories, the tale of the refugee turned commoner, the commoner turned noble, the noble who challenged the Arishok of the Qunari in mortal combat for the hand of the fair maiden. Or as fair as one of Isabella's type could be, he supposd.

But they had slapped Hawke on the back and given him the title of Champion, so it must have been true, he thought. The Qunari stragglers who had remained in the city looked upon him with a reverent contempt, the slayer of their Arishok and the champion over the Qun, a man as commendable as he was a foe, further reinforcing the story that seemed too impossible in his head.

Then Hawke was no longer a peer of those who resided in Hightown. Now he was the Champion of Kirkwall, their better, a cult of personality rising with a flash around him beyond what he could control as aristocrats clamored for his favor at dinner parties he had no interest in attending. Suddenly words were nothing so simple as that, but had to be weighed carefully before each one committed him to some myriad of political battlefields that were now too numerous to even be sure how many actually existed and over what.

But there were practical benefits of living in Hightown. Despite the vacancy of the Viscount's chair following his death at the hands of the Qunari the city guard and local government had striven to simply pretend as though he were still there. Aveline continued to assign her patrols and do her best to corral a semblance of order out of the city's populace while operating from her office at the foot of the Viscount's chambers. Dignitaries and ministers that oversaw each of the city's functions offered a mournful toast to their slain leader every time they discussed business, but save for such token pittance it would seem as though the man had simply gone off on business rather than leaving a year-long power vacuum.

The principle difference, Hawke realized, was that with the Viscount gone and the Templars fighting tooth and nail to keep a new one from being elected the foreign faces of the chantry were cropping up in unwelcome places. They tried to remain inconspicuous, like stone statues passively observing the goings on of the Viscount's palace, but their clumsy attempts at subterfuge were undone by their armor polished to such a fine sheen that it would blind a man to look at it and the way they would creep ever closer to conversations that Knight-Commander Meredith might find interesting.

They were an unwanted intrusion, somehow playing the part of occupiers in a city that they called home.

What was worse, Hawke thought as he entered into the opal antechamber of Viscount's keep, was that any time a formal complaint was not lodged with Meredith their numbers seemed to grow, like unwanted pests. Occasionally a minister would grow tired of the overly obvious spies and a drastic reduction in their number would be visible in response, but the moment the politicians lowered their guard they'd reappear in seemingly greater numbers.

The antechamber was a contradiction of all five senses. The gardens brought in a cool air and the fragrance of flowers, but the musk of the guard and the unwashed seeking recompense for the wrongs done to them could not be drowned out even by the densest of perfumes that the Viscount's men attempted to lather in every corner. The high mountain air was caught in the heat of the sun and Kirkwall's climate, making any visit an uncomfortably humid experience. Foreign dignitaries wore elaborate gowns, dresses, and attire that befitted their cultures but were a clash with the local norms and customs, seeming as out of place as the templars that watched from the upper level.

Seneschal Bran had done wonders to return the Keep to its former glory in light of the Qunari take over, adequately removing the thick stains of blood that Hawke dared to think were going to become a permanent coat of paint over the marble floors and stone walls. He was forced to commend the seneschal on his ability to return the castle to its proper state as a stale whore house of politics.

Hawke climbed the black and white colored stares, footfalls silent on a thick crimson carpet draped across the wide steps' center. Aveline's message had been unusually curt and short, even for a woman of her verbiage. "Come. Urgent." Hawke could still feel the hairs on his back and arm stand on end at the strange intensity in the message. At first he'd doubted she'd penned it at all if not for the wax seal of the city guard that had been pressed into the letter.

As he approached the barracks a curious sight of a half dozen guards in various states of armored dress stood about the oaken door of Aveline's office, sharing the occasional silent look as they listened to a chorus of yells that came from within. To Hawke's great surprise the yelling was not only in Aveline's voice.

"Serrah Hawke," one of the guards said as he approached, gesturing toward the door, "I was told to see you in the moment you arrived."

Hawke raised an eyebrow as he threw a curious glance at the door. "She sounds busy."

"Aye, but the captain was insistent." The guard hoisted open the door and it was like a muzzle had been lifted from a wounded hound as the argument spilled out into the barracks proper with all the fury of a storm.

"I will _not_ vouch for the security of your men if you won't cooperate and _tell_ me where they're going!" Aveline's voice was beginning to crack. She had been punishing her throat for some time, giving her a hoarse but no less menacing rasp to her shouts.

Aveline's fists were clenched and slammed into the top of her desk, having already upended an ink vial and strewn a number of papers all across the room. A quick glance left Hawke thinking that he may have spied a small crack in the desk as well.

The subject of her chastisement was a clean cut looking templar, well groomed with fuzz on his cheeks that looked like an attempt to grow whiskers beneath his ears. It was the sight of a boy trying to play at a man and Hawke suspected that the Knight-Commander sending such an untested and visible youth to address Aveline had only fueled the woman's rage further.

"I think I caught you at a bad time..." Hawke observed with a low tone and a weary eye. "I can-,"

"Shut that door!" Aveline howled and Hawke was compelled to obey. "You're not going anywhere." She brought the full force of her venom throwing glare back on the templar.

"The Viscount's death...complicates matters," he said in a voice that reeked of preaching and condescension. "I understand there are gaps in your patrols, but with the Knight-Commander's increased responsibilities, the Templars-,"

"To Hell with it," Aveline roared, rising to her full height and gesturing toward the door Hawke had just shut. "See yourself out or I'll have you dragged by your ears like the impertinent whelp you are."

"I don't-,"

Aveline was having none of the man's stammering attempts at a response.

"Tell your..." Hawke gaped as he watched the word "bitch" form on Aveline's lips and though every instinct in her wanted to wield it like a weapon against the Knight-Commander better sense prevailed as she stared at Hawke, whose expression gave all necessary commentary on the wisdom of the word. She looked back at the Templar youth, shaking her head, the energy suddenly drained from her, as though it had taken every last reserve to plug the insult inside her mouth. "Tell the Knight-Commander that I will require more transparency from her office if she expects me to oblige her. She does not command the city guard and I cannot guarantee her men's safety if they wander about without telling me where she's going."

The templar stood silent for several long moments as he tried to digest the newly courteous face of Aveline and perhaps trying to conjure a response, but it seemed to Hawke as though he had also expended all the words that the Knight-Commander had equipped him with, drawing the conversation to an impasse. After a long time his mouth finally curled and through pursed lips he let out a soft sigh.

"I will report your words to the Knight-Commander," the Templar finally conceded, reaching down to scoop his helmet off the floor where Aveline had probably knocked it off in a fit of her rage. "I do not vouch for the consequence of that report, however."

"I ask nothing of you, I expect nothing of you but that," Aveline said, stepping back and falling into her chair, sinking into it almost completely. The nameless templar bowed his head and placed the steel helm over his head. He turned and spared Hawke a quick glance.

"Champion."

"Templar."

Carrying a skip on his step with an eagerness to leave the guard captain behind, the Templar respectfully stepped past Hawke and disappeared behind the closed oak door.

Alone now, Hawke turned a bemused and half concerned glance at Aveline.

"That was...interesting," he observed as he plucked a chair from the far end of the room and slid it to Aveline's desk, taking his seat.

"Maker have mercy," an exasperated Aveline said as she slipped her face into her hands. In that moment she looked, for the first time, as though she was beginning to wear her years. So many times Hawke had looked at her and been amazed that despite never lowering her pace since leaving Lothering she did not look the worse for wear. He had even gone so far as to joke that she had found herself an ancient Tevinter fountain of youth or some equivalent. But today the edges of her eyes were lined and peeled with stress as her tired hands trembled. "That woman is going to be the death of me."

"Obviously Isabela's vacating the job was more than an invitation for Meredith to swoop in." Aveline's glare shot daggers.

"Not the time, Hawke."

The Champion cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "You said to come urgently. I would guess it had something to do with that?" He gestured toward the door the Templar had walked out of.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." Aveline tried to busy herself by straightening up her desk, occasionally trying to clear the gruff that had worn down on her throat. "I shouldn't have been so angry."

"It's alright."

Aveline frowned then shook her head, taking a breath in an attempt to draw a look of calm over her face. "A Templar disappeared last night, in Lowtown."

"Lowtown?" Hawke scoffed. "What in the devils was he doing there?"

"I don't know, I asked Meredith the same thing, she won't budge. She sent that little virgin to come tell me as much, but she had the audacity to remind me that I need to keep the city safe for her men."

"Safe for her men?" Hawke said wryly with a shake of his head. "The personal bodyguard of Templars, you've gone up in the world."

"The situation is..." a thousand words passed over Aveline's mind before one finally settled upon her lips, "bad. I'm lucky Donnic was near the scene and got word to me so fast. Meredith wanted to go down to Lowtown with torches and burn the answers out of the people."

Hawke narrowed his eyes but did not say a word.

"We got there in time to cool her down, at least for now. I reminded her this is a criminal matter. She insists based on...witnesses that a mage was behind it. But we have no proof right now and until that proof surfaces it's a matter for the law, _not_ the Chantry."

"That doesn't sound like much incentive to find out who did it," Hawke observed, crossing his arms over her chest. Aveline fidgeted as she was caught.

"I hope it wasn't a mage," Aveline said, her voice almost pleading. "We can't have that right now. Kirkwall would never survive it. Meredith is convening with the Grand Cleric and all their little law sages to find out how the law treats an assault on one of the Chantry's men. I'm delaying it as long as I can but...we need information first. We need it before it gets to Meredith. I can stall her, but I'm going to need your help."

"How do you propose I help in all of this?"

"Anders," Aveline said quietly, as though frightened about uttering his name too loudly with the Templars so near. "I need you to talk to him. That man is a lightning rod for every right pissed mage in the city, if a mage got uppity and killed a Templar he'll know, and I need you to talk him into handing the mage over if they did."

Hawke shook his head with such a curt finality that one would have guessed someone had just asked him to become a Tevinter eunuch. "You don't know Anders."

"I _do_ know Anders," Aveline insisted, forcefully. "And that's why I'm not asking him myself."

"What was the Templar doing alone? Even guards don't walk Lowtown at night by themselves."

Aveline's shoulders heaved a disappointed shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine. That's what I was telling the soldier boy here."

"I hate to say it," Hawke said with a shake of his head, "but you have to admit that it seems unlikely that the people would risk turning Meredith on the locals by just arbitrarily killing a Templar. A mage connection is the most likely."

"Yes..." Aveline said sadly, looking down, "I know. Just please, do this for me Hawke. I'll handle the Knight-Commander, you just...see what you can find out. Please."

The slow nod was a dutiful one as Hawke rose from his chair a sigh creasing out of his lips. "I...will see what I can do but I make no promises."

"No one has been able to promise anything today," Aveline hissed.

Hawke sighed. "I promise I'll try, does that satisfy?"

Aveline smiled, but it was without any life. She looked up. "It'll have to."


	3. Chapter 2 - Liar's Dice

In the far corner of the Hanged Man a pair of patrons noisily went about their day with a game of liar's dice, throwing the crude bone carved dice down atop the table and slamming a cup atop them, giving a hearty shake as they stared one another down in a desperate search for tells. Every round came with a seesaw of joy and rage in equal measure as they each tried to bluff, lie and cheat their way to a deeper fortune, curses strung together elaborately and with the skill of any poet. The fury of whoever lost a round was so deep that it carved crevices into Varric's forehead and on more than one occasion he had found his thoughts trailing from their point, only to snap to, look down, and realized that somewhere his calculations had been wrong and his ledger was now babbling nonsense. It was time wasted and left far too many scratch marks for proper accounting. Too many corrections.

"Liar!" one of the two men, a bearded oaf whose hair seemed to have migrated from scalp to chin leaving a polished marble for a cranium, howled through gapped teeth. He sneered at his opponent expectantly as the other man lifted his cup, revealing his dice.

"Am I?" the other man said boastfully. His accent had tinges of Rivaini, but Varric guessed more incidentally than anything else. The marble head hissed at first then stomped his feet angrily, shaking the loose wood of the Hanged Man's floor. He was like a tea kettle starting with a small whine before letting out a high pitched shriek of frustration, then finally slamming his cup onto the table top.

The smelling Rivaini-speaker reached across the table to pluck at the pot, dragging silver coins into his pile and giggling like a young girl all the while. The angry bald man punished the table with another slam.

"How about I cut that hand right off and see how well you lie at dice without it?" he yelled, which only bought him another coo of laughter from his opponent.

Varric finally looked up, the thin cord of his patience finally snapping. He watched the exchange curiously. Only minutes before the blond haired Rivain tongued man was howling the same threat.

"If you two are going to keep up at this all day," Varric said suddenly, putting his quill down on the table next to the ledger, "why don't you at least keep us entertained with new insults. This dull show is only going to get worse if you keep bottling the same piss you throw at each other."

Four eyes suddenly shot across the room to stare at him, the animosity of two cutthroats suddenly united against a common enemy.

"I don't remember asking a half man for anything," the bald man hissed, his voice a mild slobber as though his tongue were too big for his mouth.

"Well, you should," Varric leaned back into his chair and placed cupped hands behind his head, striking a pose of condescending relax. "You're both awful at liar's dice, maybe you should ask for advice on how to play it so you won't waste three hours of my time trading the same seven pieces of silver back and forth."

The yellow haired man leapt out of his chair, drawing the silence of whichever patrons had not yet been caught up in the growing spectacle. Varric was visibly unimpressed by the bravado, accentuating the fact with a bored yawn.

"Varric," Isabela cooed in her soft, but pressing voice on the other side of the tavern. She sat at a small booth with a piss smelling tankard of beer, one leg crossed over the knee of the other as she shook her head. "Don't pick on lads with faculties beneath your own."

The blond haired goon took a moment as he tried to register whether he had been insulted or defended. Giving up the internal debate he shot another angry stare at Varric, deciding to return to the certain enemy over the unknown.

Opposite the copper skinned Isabela a wide eyed Merrill watched with a deep interest, her legs closed together as her feet bounced with a certain excitement. There was a charm in her innocence, as though the young Dalish were watching a play for her enjoyment rather than a show down that had the very real possibility of ending in blood. Another coat of paint for the Hanged Man's floors, Varric thought to himself.

With the eyes off of him the bald man had seemed to lost interest and was playing boredly with some of the dice in his cup. The yellow haired man however was a prancing buck, however, his horns reared and unwilling to back down until he'd butted heads with something.

"I'll fight you right now stumpy man," he hissed with that voice that had all the callouses of the Rivaini tongue and none of the song, his fingers toying with the hilt of a dagger.

"You," a familiar voice cut through the piss soaked air of the Hanged Man, catching the attention of all and drawing the blond assailant's eyes to the door. Hawke was jerking a thumb toward the door. "Out."

At first the man was ready to protest, his instinct's pace outrunning his good sense. "Why..." he caught himself and nearly fell over as he tried desperately to reverse course. "Champion, I-,"

"I'm not saying it again. Out."

Even without his armor Hawke was an imposing sight, with a confident posture and narrowed eyes that left little room for discussion. Though no taller than any other patron in the tavern the years in Kirkwall had been good to him, giving him a narrow frame that was edged with enough muscle to threaten even those professing to have an iron jaw. Though he shared the bully's blond hair, Hawke's seemed somehow more golden and was certainly better groomed, with whiskers that traced his jaw line but fell short somewhere of a beard. Emerald green eyes stared intently at his target and the man found it impossible to match the intensity of the champion's stare.

"Aye, Messere," he said obediently, looking the part of a whipped dog as his eyes trailed the floor. With blind hands he fumbled his way out the door, careful not to bump into the champion or show any further disrespect on his flight. Varric walked up to the table and slid his pile of silver coins into a leather purse.

"And I'll take those as an apology for the noise," he said, shooting a toothy grin at the human marble that was scowling at the gesture. The man started to open his mouth to respond. "Oh don't bitch, I'm sure I've lost far more than this in simple accounting errors thanks to your little show."

If he had another protest he was wise enough to keep it behind his chapped his lips. Varric cleared his throat and turned around, suddenly an air of welcome and joy as he parted his arms out at his sides as though he were expecting a hug.

"Hawke!" he cried out. "Impeccable timing as always."

Across the room Varric spied a slight scoff from Isabela who swallowed her tankard and let out a cough in place of a belch. She hit her chest as though the beer had been clogged there and she were trying to force it down. Merrill eyed her own drink with fluttering eyes.

"I don't like mine enough to do that," she said quietly.

"Nobody likes it," Isabella said, "we like what it does to us."

"Going somewhere, Rivaini?" Varric asked sardonically, shaking his head.

"Yeah...you know I can only stomach so much of this place."

"Could've fooled me," Varric poked, "why do you still come here?"

Isabela rose from her booth and gestured at the young elf across from her. "I come here for her."

Varric rolled his eyes. "She comes here for you."

Merrill sinked into her chair like a child caught between two fighting parents. "I like it here," she said squeamishly.

"Why don't you walk Daisy home," Varric insisted as he returned to his chair and picked his quill back up. "Just in case that Rivaini wannabe outside gets a dirty look in his eye at her."

Isabella tossed a glance at Merrill, who was starting to show signs of perking back up. "If that would be okay."

"Let's go Kitten," Isabella said, though she did not wait for the girl as she pushed past Hawke and Varric noted that she seemed to labor not to look at the champion. Merrill scamped out of her chair, then stopped in front of Hawke.

"Good to see you, Hawke," she said before standing in front of him awkwardly for a moment. As though to break the moment, she reached forward and patted him on the arm, then slipped outside.

Hawke simply shook his head and pulled a chair up to Varric's table. The Hanged Man had returned to its normal symphony of drunkards and whores with the liar's dice players sufficiently muted. Varric congratulated himself on a job well done at that.

"She's been acting so strangely," Varric observed, confident that Hawke picked up on his attempt to strike a conversation despite his own face being buried in his ledger once more. Hawke did not bite at the bait. "You'd think she'd show a little more appreciation to the dragon that swooped in to slay the ogre to save the fair maiden."

"Is that what they're saying about me now?" Hawke did not seem entirely amused, but somewhere on the edge of his words a smile played with his tone.

"Not yet," Varric admitted playfully, "but they might." A moment of silence passed between the two and Varric wetted his mouth with a taste of beer in anticipation of whatever it was Hawke had it on his mind to talk about. "What can I do for you, Hawke?"

"Anders," he answered as though the word was all Varric needed to hear. The dwarf scribbled a note in his ledger, refusing to look up. Hawke sighed. "I'm looking for him."

"Did you try his clinic?"

"Of course I tried his clinic." Hawke was unusually frustrated, drawing Varric at last away from his book and meriting his full attention. He dropped the act. "I need him, have you seen him?"

Varric shook his head. "Not since last week if I'm to be straight with you. I figured he's off somewhere writing a poem, going something like, 'Templars are bad, so very bad.'"

"If you see him..."

"I'll tell him you're looking for him, of course."

Hawke did not seem satisfied, shaking his head and occasionally glancing about the bar as though he felt he was going to find Anders amongst the crowd.

Deciding to shift the subject, Varric rolled the quill between his plump fingers and leaned forward across the table. "Let's talk turkey Hawke. What's going on between you and the Rivaini?"

At first the champion seemed flustered, turning a glare on his friend as though the question were impertinent, beneath him. But like he had been suddenly touched by a soothing balm, Hawke sighed and let his features turn neutral as he slinked into his chair. "You tell me."

"You two seemed inseparable a year ago," Varric observed, catching a hint of regret or sadness in his own tone, "to be honest she always seemed like the type waiting to get swept off her feet."

"She's probably mad over that damn book." Hawke had been insistent about the return of the Qunari's sacred relic and though Varric understood Isabella's regret at having to give the bounty up. But he wasn't so sure that was what had driven her so sour. Isabella liked to pretend that she was as shallow as a Lowtown bathhouse, but it was a piss poor facade if he had ever seen one.

"Have you tried...talking to her? I heard that usually helps solve communication problems."

Hawke curled his lips and his face contorted into a frown. "No."

"Well that might be your problem right there." Varric reached up and scratched at his brow with his quill. "I'm no expert in human relations, but I can't help but think you two puffing your chests everytime you see each other is going to accomplish much of anything. Plus if we're in a chest puffing contest I think she'll always have you beat."

For the first time, Hawke laughed at that.

"See?" Varric poked. "A Hawke without smiles is like a day in Lowtown without someone getting shanked."

Just as quickly as the mirth had appeared it was drained from Hawke's face. "What's that?" he asked, eyes drawn to the ledger in an attempt to change the subject.

"This," Varric explained, patting the dry pages tenderly, "is a record of every finance I have ever been or ever will be responsible for."

"Sounds awfully risky," Hawke observed, "bringing something like that into the Hanged Man of all places."

"Nah. I have four others."

"And if it should fall into the wrong hands?"

Varric shrugged, taking another gulp of his beer. "Then they'll find out what they already know: Varric Tethras is a very wealthy Dwarf."

Hawke did not seem convinced but he had never been one to press too hard on topics of Varric's business enterprises. It was no secret how interwoven the dwarf's finances were in nearly every facet of the city, including, Hawke knew, his companions and their fates. It was a box of riddles not worth opening.

"Sounds tedious," the champion finally said at length.

"Normally it is," Varric said, glancing back down at the scribbles, "today it is particularly and unusually interesting."

"And why is that?"

Varric made a handful of etches and notes. It was true that it would be no great harm to him if someone were to make off with the ledger, but out of habit he made sure that each of his notes were in an old Dwarvish dialect. In some circles that would be more difficult to decrypt than a cipher.

"Well," Varric explained as he tried to rationalize a column of numbers, "not having a Viscount...complicates things."

"How so?" For a moment Varric stared at the champion curiously. Hawke was smarter than that, he thought, but maybe the concept of economics really did elude him. Once more Varric spun the quill between his two hands. "All the old ministers are still intact and Meredith at least pretends to fill the role."

"You like dates, don't you Hawke?"

"Dates?"

"The little fruits that get sold around here. Prunish things, look like Ferelden raisins."

Hawke nodded slowly, though it was obvious he did not follow.

Sugared dates were a favorite dish in Kirkwall, an appetizer at most dinners between the upper class or those pretending to be, often times with a side of cream. Varric had never acquired much of a taste for them, but they were ever popular all the same. Varric preferred his spiced mushroom stew, personally.

"You haven't had a date in a while have you Hawke?"

This time a shake of the champion's head.

"Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because we don't have a viscount."

"Alright now you've lost me. Do the palm trees just fail to blossom when Dumar isn't on the throne?"

Varric grinned. "Every date that gets picked here belongs to Comte Alacros. His men pick them, his men sell them to Malric down at the docks, Malric puts them on one of his ships, that ship takes it to Orlais and dukes and ladies get a taste of the Free Marches. The dates that _you_ like come from Starkhaven."

"Why don't we just eat our own dates?"

Varric sighed. "Because there's no profit in it for Comte Alacros. We sell all of ours to Orlais and that makes us money. Then we buy all the ones Starkhaven doesn't want and we eat those." He gave Hawke a moment to digest the information, then continued. "The reason we got so many delicious dates at such a wonderful price is because Dumar had a great relationship with the Vaels of Starkhaven. But now Dumar is dead and the Vaels aren't terribly fond of Meredith."

Hawke furrowed his brow. "I was always under the impression that the Vaels got on rather well with the chantry."

"And they do. But Meredith isn't the chantry, the grand cleric is. And the grand cleric doesn't run Kirkwall right now, Meredith does. And Meredith likes to do funny things like insult Vael diplomats and demand prices completely irrespective of supply and demand. So now the Vaels don't want to sell us dates and now you don't get a sweet little appetizer before you enjoy your turtle stew."

"But the trade minister..." Hawke said, trying to keep a grasp on the dizzying line of economics that Varric was trying to explain.

"Is a stamp pusher. A piece of paper ends up on his desk and he says, 'Oh this says the same thing as this piece of paper, time to stamp it.' Then he goes home and works off a hard day's work with all of his pretty Elven servants."

"So you're...worrying about your investments in the date trade," Hawke said, his tone a sing song plea for approval. Varric's look was a deadpanned glower as he shook his head.

"Something like that Hawke."

As Hawke shook his head Varric grinned to himself in a certain sense of victory. He knew there was a reason that the champion rarely asked about his business dealings and this conversation probably bought him at least another month without having to explain himself.

The taller man across the table did not seem ready to leave quite yet, causing Varric to cock a curious eyebrow. A wisp of concern was growing into a weight on the man's shoulders, but the dwarf was smart enough to keep from asking about it directly.

Instead he deftly shifted subjects again.

"You playing in that lottery, Hawke?" Varric prodded, breaking the man out of a trance like stare. "It's all Isabela keeps talking about. Seems to think it's going to get her two ships and the men to staff them."

"Every fool and their cousins are playing in that lottery," Hawke said with a frown.

"So are you?"

"It's a waste of time and money."

"That's what I said," Varric agreed.

"And it reeks of being a scam."

"That's what Fenris said."

Hawke chuckled a bit and pushed his chair away from the table. "Where Meredith got the money to host such a thing is a mystery to me."

"There are wealthy mages," Varric speculated as he watched Hawke rise, "and who do you think gets that property when they unceremoniously end up in the Circle?"

The champion frowned as he thought about that, straightening his clothes as he turned to leave. The thought was clearly chilling to him. "Meredith is a fanatic," he said dismissively, "not a thief."

"Maybe," Varric said with a shrug, turning back to his ledger. "But if I had an army of knights trained to hunt down potentially rich people that's how I'd pay for it."

That seemed to hint at a little more truth to Hawke than he cared to admit, and well added to his discomfort as he left the Hanged Man as he'd found it.


	4. Chapter 3 - Footsteps in the Sand

"Were we leaving because Hawke was there?" Merrill asked as they began to descend the steps that gave Lowtown the best claim to its name. Isabela skirted ahead of her, pretending that her eyes were darting through every corner and crevice like a concerned cat, though Merrill knew by now that the woman felt the confidence of her stride. Only once had there been an incident on the route to the alienage, a drunk man that Isabela described as having a bigger cock than brain had grabbed at Merril while he tried to trade barbs with Isabela. A quick flash of one of the woman's daggers and the man fell to the ground in a dramatic display of blood, though to Merrill's horror at the time that had not lessened his grip. In fact, it had taken a great deal of prying by Isabela to get the detached hand from the younger girl's wrist.

Merrill suspected Isabela enjoyed the fact that she was needed and could play the part of captain again in some way, the trek through Lowtown a voyage that needed her guidance more than her protection. Merrill just liked the company.

The question seemed to carry a barb to it that brought a hiss of frustration from Isabela. The copper skinned pirate did not turn to regard Merrill, but instead increased her pace. Merrill supposed that was all the answer she needed from the older woman.

"Did you ever notice that if they never sweeped the streets you'd only have one set of footsteps to my house?" Merrill asked suddenly as she watched the older woman walk. She wore her tell-tale, smug strut that was as much a dialogue with those around her as any words she spoke.

Isabela stopped then, spinning with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Every time you walk me home you always step in the same place." Merrill's eyes were still on Isabela's feet. "The first few times I thought it was an accident, but then I started counting your steps. Do you do it on purpose?"

The bronze eyes of the self-labelled pirate queen were drawn down to the dusty path she had been carving, a look of amusement and confusion pulled across her face.

"I..." she started, looking back up at Merrill. "You confuse me sometimes."

"I tried walking like you," the elf admitted, looking down bashfully, "I kept tripping over my feet. I don't know how you do it."

"In any case," Isabela interjected, "no I don't do it on purpose. It must be...an old habit I guess?" She shook her head and turned to continue walking, though occasionally glancing down and self consciously watching where her feet landed.

The two shared no more words until they reached Merrill's home in the alienage. Stepping inside the young elf stretched out her arms, the thick sea air of the outside replaced by the familiar, if decrepit air of her home. It was a welcome smell, a smell that meant that she could rest, relax if she wanted to, she was at ease and as far as she could tell, it was the only place no harm could come to her.

Isabela leaned against the frame of the door, watching as the younger girl kicked off her boots and removed the false gold wristbands she wore and tucked them into a shelf on the far side of the room. When she opened the drawer to place them inside she nearly gasped as dozens of small pieces of paper that had been packed in tighter than a refugee ship began to slip out and across the floor.

"What in the devil," Isabela said, crossing the room and retrieving one of the slips as Merrill hastily tried to scoop them all up. The copper-skinned woman looked down at the ticket in her hand.

"A lottery ticket," Isabela said wryly, "kitten how many of these did you buy?"

"Oh, I don't know," Merrill confessed as she crammed them back into the drawer. She reached up and snatched the one Isabela was holding then shoved it in with the others. After a slight struggle she shut it again. "I buy one everytime I end up near the Gallows. Sometimes I buy two."

"A lottery's no good if you spend the worth of the prize on the tickets."

Merrill scratched at her head, her finger coming into a contact with a loose strand of hair that she tried to tuck behind her ear. The thing was stubborn and was slightly matted with sweat, the subtle gesture suddenly becoming an overt attempt to look presentable. With a slight growl the thing finally complied and she let out a sigh.

"I know," she said, "but...I mean, the more tickets, the higher the chance...right? I think it's worth it."

"So this is why you were asking to be put on my tab at the Hanged Man..." Isabela observed disapprovingly.

Merrill simply shrugged. "I'll pay you back when I win." Her smile was too much for the pirate, who shook her head despite the grimace she wore. "Do you think Hawke is playing the lottery?"

Isabela threw back her head and let out a low growl as she waved her hands through the air in frustration.

"Kitten," she said with a tone that was laced with venom, "I need you to stop asking me about Hawke."

Merrill shirked away, looking as though she'd been struck, eyes drawn to the floor as she let out a small gasp. Sensing the harsh and somewhat crude way she had responded, Isabela sighed and reached out as though to pull the Elf into a hug, but settled for resting a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, kitten," she admitted quietly, under her breath as though she were careful that they were the only two in the alienage who would hear it. "I'm not mad at you. He's just..." the words clung to her mouth like spiderwebs, "he's not something I want to talk about, alright?"

"I would say I understand," Merrill responded sheepishly, "but I don't."

"No one does," Isabela admitted, "and it's likely no one will. At least not for a while. Just...let me sort it out alright? You trust me to do that, don't you?"

"Of course!" Merrill chirped, looking back up. "I just hate watching it. It's confusing and makes me feel sad."

Isabela nodded slowly. "Makes me sad too, kitten. But it is what it is."

The two did not discuss the matter further as Isabela helped in cleaning up what mess remained of the tickets. Before she left she threw a stare at the shattered mirror across the way, an ugly and garish piece of sorcery that looked out of place in the run down shack that Merrill called home. Isabela shuttered visibly.

"I wish you'd get rid of that thing," she sneered as she started to leave.

Merrill caught herself before admitting that Hawke felt the same way, but did not press the matter, instead seeing her friend out. As Isabela left, Merrill found herself leaning against the door frame in an attempt to mimic the other woman's pose. She laughed at herself at that, though the mirth was suddenly sucked from her lips as she heard a soft chorus of somber notes on the mouths of the elves of the alienage.

She recognized the words.

"Ir abelas, ma vhenan," she heard a voice sing, the words caught in the air and their impact bringing a mist to Merrill's eyes. From the surrounding houses the call was echoed in a dozen voices, "Ir abelas, ma vhenan."

The elves were praying for someone who had passed and though Merrill did not know who or why they were singing, as they continued she found herself joining them.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Man and the Horse Tattoo

With Anders nowhere to be seen, his clinic locked tight without so much as a sign posted to offer hope to his normal patients, Hawke decided that the best course of action would be to simply examine the crime scene himself. Roughly three streets from the Elven alienage one would have been forgiven for never even realizing that a man had allegedly been attacked there, the dusty feet of a thousand travellers having pounded the dirt back into a road and hidden any blood or conflict.

The buildings of Kirkwall's poor districts were no less imposing than the spires of Hightown, stretching dozens of feet high, packed so densely that the landlords were imposing rent upon at least a dozen families in each dwelling. Even in the bright afternoon sun they still cast shadows that sent a shiver down Hawke's spine, cooling the alleyway and looking the part of the walls of a fortress.

Hawke knelt down to examine the dirt, as though he were going to find some hidden clue buried beneath. He let out a sigh at the futility of it all and patted his hands together to bat away the sand.

When he looked back up he saw a girl peeking her head out from behind an abandoned cart, her eyes burid under a marsh of auburn locks that clung to her skin.

"Are you a Templar?" she asked.

"A Templar?" Hawke echoed. "Why would you think that?"

The girl had a strange confidence in her stare. Even thinking the man a Templar she never looked away from him, though the intensity of her look was unnerving, with eyes wide as saucers, focused on something beyond Hawke. Feeling unnerved, chilled even, he took a glance over his shoulder, as though some silent attacker or stalker were lurking in the shadows behind him.

When he looked back at the girl she was starting to carefully step away from the cart that served as her shield. She wore a mudstained dress that was at one time brown by Hawke's best guess, though it looked more like a tunic that had been passed down from a father or uncle.

"You're dressed too pretty for Mummer's Street," she finally said quietly.

"No child, I'm not a Templar."

"That's good." The girl's eyes ran to a spot on the ground, as though something were there for her to focus on, but best Hawke could tell it was nothing more than dust. She shook her head. "Mummer's Street isn't safe for Templars."

Hawke's expression hardened. "Why is that, child?"

The sound of footsteps down the alley caused Hawke to look for just a brief moment, quick enough to see that two figures were approaching, but when he looked back at the girl she was gone. For only a brief moment he began to doubt that she had ever been there at all.

WIth a shake of his head Hawke rose to his feet and turned to regard the two strangers that were approaching. In the front was a man so round that it seemed as though he had not only found but consumed all the food in Kirkwall with an elaborate blue and gold robe that Hawke suspected could've served as a ship's sail if it had been entirely unfurled and hung to a mast. He had a straight beard with a gold band that kept it pointed like a spear's tip, with a crown of hair with streaks of blue dye hugging at the edges of his balding frame. Heavy gold chains and amulets bounced and clanged at his chest with each step, but not to be outdone by his neck his sausage like fingers were covered in every kind of gem Hawke had a name for on a golden ring, and even a few he didn't have a name for.

The fat man was grinning ear to ear as he approached but the fully armored figure behind him was a mess of scowls. Thick black hair was cropped together in a pony tail so long that it hung over his shoulder like a mane and the tattoo of a horse rearing on its hind legs covered the surface of his flesh from forehead to chin over his right eye. Attached to his scowl was squiggled, mangy goatee that seemed to be his best attempt at managing his facial hair. On his back was the largest sword that Hawke had ever seen, but on every hip and joint the stranger suffered no shortage of daggers and knives that blended well with his raven black armor.

"You will get nothing from the child," the fat man said, crossing his hands over his belly and coming to a stop in front of Hawke. His words were laced in such a heavy accent that Hawke did not recognize that he could barely make out his words. "I am afraid I have already questioned her and once she has finished asking if you are a Templar she just goes into repeating herself."

Hawke rose to his feet to meet them, dusting the sand from his knee.

"So you've spoken to her then," he stated obviously, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Just so," the fat man acknowledged, bowing his head in a nod that shook the excess skin around his neck. He waved one of his hands about. "And no one else around here seems to have anything interesting to say so we are returned."

Hawke crossed his arms over his chest, his emerald eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, trying to size the man up.

"Where are my manners," the stranger said, his hands animating his words with a series of circular motions, finger tips rubbing with each word. "I am Horacious." The man offered as best a bow as he could manage past his gut.

"Tiber Hawke," Hawke responded curtly, his suspicion in no way diminished by the man's introduction. At that Horacious's eyes widened, his grin twisting into a smile of strangely sick pleasure.

"The Champion!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together as he let out a strange giggle. "Oh had I but known!" He offered another exaggerated bow. "I had no idea a simple disappearance in Mummer's Street would have merited such attention."

Hawke would have rathered to give up nothing to the strange man with the funny accent, but it was impossible to hide the look of surprise from his face.

"Do not be so surprised," Horacious continued with a hearty laugh, "the missing Templar has raised many eyebrows, not the least of which his family, no? Soft hands they called him, did you know that?"

"No," Hawke said quietly, his eyes drawn to Horacious's fat haired companion who simply stared back at the champion contemptuously.

"No? I am surprised by this. Is Ser Josain's disappearance a simple curiosity then? You do not seem diligent in your investigation." Hawke locked eyes with Horacious, who seemed all joviality beneath his bushy eyebrows.

"I'm helping as a favor," Hawke explained impatiently.

"But of course." Horacious swung his hands about emphatically. "I meant no offense, truly I meant none. Sadly there seems to be little of clues here. Very sad. But I have found the scene of the crime is often the worst place to look."

"What is your interest exactly? You never did tell me," Hawke interrupted.

"My family is close to Ser Josain's," Horacious explained bluntly, "the Elikdos family and the Tubult family, we have much history. I was asked to find the boy. Private matter, yes? Before it is forgotten, Kirkwall's city guard is...most busy, when the excitement of his disappearance goes he will be forgotten. Tubults do not want Josain's death to be forgotten."

"I see," Hawke shook his head as he tried to make sense of it. "And what have you learned?" There was something about the man that unnerved Hawke, even angered him, but perhaps he could benefit in some way from Horacious's intrusion.

"Very little, I am afraid." He clasped his hands over his belly again. "Ran here, says witnesses, but if you were to ask the rats of Mummer's Street he would never have been here. Curious, no?"

"Very curious," Hawke agreed.

"But I must retire," Horacious said suddenly, clapping his hands and tossing a look at the brute behind him before looking back at Hawke. "Would it be that we could meet again, yes? Maybe we can share information. This would be good."

The funny plump man with the funny accent was all smiles as he and his brute walked past Hawke, Horacious whistling a song that echoed off the walls of Mummer's Street.


	6. Chapter 5 - The Avenger

Fenris groaned as he shoved himself painfully off the sofa, his stomach churning as he tried to remember how he got to this particular part of the mansion. As he stood he knocked over what seemed like a dozen empty glass bottles with no labels on them to identify their original contents. Fenris remembered the first bottle, he even remembered the second bottle, the others were an enigma to him.

Every step was a difficult one as he struggled to his chamber pot. The estate of his old master had been lavishly designed with one placed inside a perfumed cabinet, where the waste would be dumped into the sewer below, sparing the estate a level of modesty and the stench of Lowtown's inns. When he relieved himself he felt no better, stumbling to the mansion's antechamber as he felt bile clutch at his chest, threatening to eject at any moment.

His eyes lazily dragged up to the enormous rune etched doors to the outside world as he heaved the heavy wooden guard that served as a crude lock off its braces. Fenris paid it no heed as it tumbled to the floor with a loud bang, cautious only enough to keep it from slamming into his bare feet. It was an odd thing, he thought as he plucked his shirt from the floor and threw it over his head. When he had first settled into Danarius's mansion he seemed so certain his former master would return any day, casually stepping through the front door none the wiser that his tattooed slave was waiting on the other side, sword in his lap. Fenris had spent many sleepless nights simply watching the doorway with tense breath, not wanting to be caught unawares by Danarius.

As the years passed on the dedication of his vigil had waned. What had originally been a diligent, agonizing sentry turned into a matter of habit, until he at last decided to simply find a giant wooden blocker to keep him safe at night and he abandoned the process entirely. Now Fenris was falling into a routine somewhere between work to pay for food and drinking himself into agony like he felt that morning.

Occasionally the elf would cough, the spittle traced with a sickening acid as his stomach misinterpreted the cough as an invitation to empty its contents.

As he did every morning after a night of drinking that would put any of the sailors in the Hanged Man to shame, Fenris found himself toying with the idea of abandoning the drink entirely. He knew, however, that it was simply a fool's promise, as soon as the illness wore off he would forget all about it, insure himself he would simply be more careful next time then the thirst would return.

The night before had been particularly brutal, he thought, leaving him uncharacteristically ill. The harbormaster at the docks would not see him that day, which probably insured that he would not be welcome for more work. It was a tedious thing anyway, spending long hours at the base of ships, his muscles burning as he heaved enormous crates onto carts. There was always more work in Kirkwall for a strong back, he did not bother sparing a moment of regret on the lost employment.

Strewn across his floor were books and scrolls, which brought him varying degrees of contempt and joy depending on the time of day and amount of effort he had put into them. He had been doing his best to understand the words in them and he had even managed to lie to himself about his growing ability to read. He was forced to admit to himself that more than anything he had memorized the words he was already familiar with, reciting them like lyrics rather than tangibly understanding the ink on the pages.

Fenris was forced to admit to himself that he didn't even know what any of the books he owned were called. Maybe it was a mistake, he thought to himself, but the defeatism was chased from his mind as quickly as it entered. Concession was a surrender, a victory for Danarius that he could not and would not accept. From a thousand miles away the magister was still controlling his property, dictating the elf's actions in the subtlest of ways.

Kicking through the bottles and discarded books, papers and clothes Fenris trudged to the kitchen. A pitcher of warm water waited for him and without missing a gulp he consumed the entirety of the liquid. At first his stomach lurched in protest until it realized that it was water, at which it was suddenly much more amicable.

His thoughts turned to the Chantry. With his newly decided day off he was given an entire day to spend to his own devices and despite how the thought tasted like ashes in his mouth something in his heart drew him back to the Chantry. It was the middle of two worlds, most of the time Fenris was the only Elf he saw walking into and out of the grand cathedral and at first the eyes of the clergy could be a bit unnerving. He said no prayers, sometimes even stumbling in drunk and simply slouching before the altar, staring up at the statue of Andraste. He would lose himself in the hums and chants of the sisters that made up the clergy. There was an impossible calm that emanated from the place, a nothingness that filled him with something, and at times as Fenris lost himself in thought at the sight of Andraste's statue it even felt as though it was looking back at him.

He never sought words with the chanters, never felt the need to pour his heart out to the grand cleric. Fenris simply enjoyed basking in the calm warmth of the Chantry and realizing that somewhere in all of that, in all the stars and cosmos that the Maker had built, there was a place for him. To look at the stars and realize one's place may have been humbling for the ordinary man but to a slave it was lifting - he was a part of a greater whole, not beneath it.

Before he even realized what he was doing Fenris was dressed and halfway to the Chantry. Even in his hurried state, however, he had taken the necessary precautions, slipping out through the cellar so that no one saw him slip out of the estate that he was by all intents and purposes squatting in. Aveline had done her part to keep the guards from looking too curiously at the house of a revered Tevinter magister but she had also warned him against being overly obvious. She could direct her guards' attention away but once it was caught he would be forced to find a new domicile.

Hightown was, to Fenris, the epitome of Kirkwall. Lowtown may have been the squalor, the Docks may have been the heart and the Gallows may have been its past, but Hightown _was_ Kirkwall. The pleasant aroma of flowers from the gardens of the major estates would settle in the high walls of the district, but it was fleeting and temporary thing until the stench of manure and dried petals washed over him. Kirkwall was duplicitous by its very nature, opulent and beautiful but ugly and dark, powerful within the Free Marches but brittle and delicately balancing on the knife's edge.

Some, Fenris felt, saw the beginnings of Kirkwall's duality, but they were caught in the simplicity of their particular cause. Kirkwall was not about the mages and the Templars, it was not about the poor and the rich, until recently it was not about the native and the Qunari, it was all of them and none of them. The two sides of Kirkwall were never its symptom, it was the condition.

The only steadfastness came from the Chantry, the unrelenting marble spire that touched the clouds before Fenris. It had survived the trepidations and the tumults of the ages, unrelenting despite being tugged in a thousand directions. It had seen Viscounts come and go, even seen the rise and fall of an empire, only to stand triumphant in solemn mockery of the heathens that had come before it.

In the shadow of the pinnacle of stone Fenris felt a true humility. Danarius had hoped to beat such a humility into him and for a long time he even doubted if the spark of defiance still existed within his own gut, but only as he looked upon the opulent steps and the flowing crimson banners of Chantry did he feel his breath genuinely sucked from his lungs and a feeling that something greater than himself truly existed.

As was often the case the inside of the Chantry was sparsely populated. The residents of Kirkwall were devout in their faith, if only dutiful when obligation and social necessity demanded. The occasional beggar or repentant wife would stumble in, tearfully seeking a divine reprieve from one of the clerics, but Fenris found himself, for the most part, alone within the walls. Once more his eyes fell on the statue of Andraste, the warrior-saint, the purported wife of the Maker.

Fenris was not entirely sure how many of the legends he believed about her, but the facts found a warm place in his heart. She was a champion of what was right, casting down Tevinter magisters with a brutal efficiency during a time when they were at the height of their power. But at the end of it all, Fenris thought to himself, she died for daring to challenge them, consumed in flames for her passion.

But did the Tevinter really kill Andraste? It was a debate Fenris had had with himself several times as he sat in one of the Chantry's pews. Her body may have been turned to ash, but what did that matter? Her name and her words had become immortal, millions across Thedas flocked at the sound of her servants' summons and all that the magisters had succeeded in destroying was her flesh. They had failed to destroy _Andraste_.

To a slave death was a constant bedfellow, stalking every step and lingering behind every corner. Tucking oneself in at night or throwing themselves on a bed of straw was always to flirt with it and to awaken each day was to find a new hellish complexity of relief and regret. Death had spared you that night, only so that you could labor another day.

Fenris remembered hearing about about the slave Radun shortly after arriving in Kirkwall. Like so many things in the city the responses to his tale were complicated and varied based on who was asked, but Fenris had always admired the Almarri who had inspired rebellion against the Tevinter. According to one tale when asked if he feared death at the hands of the magisters he had dared to speak out against he had said, "A slave is not afraid of death, because the only thing he loses is his pain." The words echoed in Fenris's mind, had at times even caused him to question the wisdom of his own freedom, even if they were merely fleeting thoughts with no permanence. He had accepted his death under Danarius, he had come to terms with it, at times even welcomed it, and so it had become impossible for him to mourn for Andraste's death. What was the loss of flesh when your name was on the tongue of every man, woman and child for a thousand years?

"Can I get you anything?" a soft voice asked suddenly, snapping Fenris from his thoughts and peeling his eyes away from Andraste's statue. One of the chanters had a small bowl of bread between her arms and was offering one of the pieces to him. His stomach grumbled at the thought.

"No," he said curtly, too curtly he thought. "Thank you," he added quickly.

The Sister did not press the issue, bowing her head graciously and approaching one of the few others inside the Chantry with the same offer.

His thoughts now broken, Fenris turned his gaze back upon the statue, though he could not conjure the same thoughts or feelings as before, instead sighing at the churn in his stomach, unsure whether he was still sick from the previous night's debauchery or was starting to feel hungry. He felt like a fool then for turning down the Sister's bread.

Light footsteps approached him, but Fenris did not look away from the statue until he felt the weight of the pew shift next to him, his eyes widening, if only for a moment, when he realized Hawke was sitting next to him.

"You never struck me as the pious type," Fenris observed as he looked back at the statue, leaning back into the pew.

He could feel more than see Hawke's shrug. "I figured you might be here," he answered, sharing moment to make a gesture of respect towards Andraste. "I was wondering if I could speak to you a moment."

"You always have my ear, Hawke."

"And how glad I am for that." Hawke did not immediately press the point and Fenris could not tell if it was out of respect or from carefully choosing his words. After a few moments passed, he finally continued. "Does the name Horacious mean anything to you?"

"No," Fenris responded simply. He turned to look at Hawke. "It's remarkably common name in the Imperium, even amongst the soporati."

"Soporati...?"

"The non-mages of Tevinter."

"Ah."

Hawke looked down until Fenris pressed the point.

"Why do you ask?"

"I ran into a man named Horacious today. Enormous, round as a jug of wine."

"If he's a Tevinter in Kirkwall there's a good chance he's consumed more in a day than a slave could hope for in a life time, it is not terribly surprising."

Hawke chuckled lightly, then cleared his throat. "He was...investigating something he shouldn't have been investigating."

Fenris's ear perked and he turned to look at his friend, the edges of his mouth twisting.

Hawke continued. "Did you hear about the Templar on Mummer's Street?"

"No."

"Apparently a Templar went and got himself disappeared wandering through Lowtown. A Ser Josain." Hawke waited a moment to see if that name meant anything to Fenris before continuing. "Horacious seemed just as interested as I was."

"And why are you interested in this missing Templar, if I may ask?"

"Aveline asked me to look into it."

"I see," Fenris pursed his lips and leaned forward into the pew, touching fingertip to fingertip. "An odd thing, a Templar disappearing on the streets of Kirkwall," he conceded. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday," Hawke explained, "Horacious said he was a friend of the family in Ferelden. He's from some house called...Elikdos?"

Fenris's eyes suddenly hardened and he snapped into a straight posture, eyes falling on Hawke. "Elikdos? Are you certain on this word?"

"I don't quite have the accent to say it as aptly as you do, but yes, he said the Elikdos family has close ties to the Tubults."

"There is no such thing as an Elikdos family," Fenris sneered, an angry growl under his lips directed not at Hawke, but at his revelation. "An Elikdos is a title. A Tevinter title. It means Avenger."

"Avenger?" Hawke queried, his face a mess of confusion.

"They're like rich bounty hunters with pretty names. He's not here on personal business from the Tubults."

"How can you be so sure?" Hawke pressed, dreading where this was going.

"If the Templar disappeared yesterday, how did word already reach his family in Ferelden? And how did Horacious get here so quickly?"

Hawke did not immediately have an answer, but Fenris did.

"Hadriana," the Elf growled distastefully, like the word was an ember in his mouth.

"You don't think..."

"A Tevinter avenger is in the city and happens to run into one of my known associates. That seems too close for coincidence, don't you think, Hawke?"

Hawke shook his head, more of a reluctance to believe than an unwillingness to. "You didn't come up at all in our conversation."

"That I wouldn't," Fenris agreed, "an Elikdos is too clever to show his whole hand this early in the game." Fenris was suddenly drumming his finger tips together, caught somewhere between anger and concern. "Danarius is getting close."

"What if he was simply in the area," Hawke offered, "maybe a friend of the Tubults told him and-,"

Fenris shrugged. "Maybe many things, but I don't like where this is going. Danarius's star pupil disappears a year ago while pursuing his runaway slave and suddenly a fat slave hunter arrives and starts asking you questions. I don't like it."

"Truth be told I didn't like it either," Hawke admitted, "there was something...off about the man."

"I'm going to lay low," Fenris said, suddenly rising from the pew. Hawke did likewise, then stepped aside so that the Elf could move past him. "I will see what I can dig up, but quietly. It's best if he has as little reason as possible to believe I'm in the city."

"Maybe you shouldn't stay in Danarius's estate..." Hawke offered, "for the time being at least."

"Maybe you're right," Fenris agreed. "I'll make other arrangements." Fenris's eyes narrowed as he looked at Hawke. "I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but I need you-,"

"I'll keep an eye out for him," Hawke said with a crack of a grin that at least did something to reassure Fenris. "Before you go..." Fenris stopped and looked at Hawke over his shoulder. The champion sighed. "I don't suppose you've seen Anders have you?"

Fenris looked visibly confused, looking left and right before looking back at Hawke. "Why would I have seen Anders?"

"Forget it," Hawke said dismissively with a shake of his head.

Fenris tried to for a moment, bidding his farewell to Hawke, but as he departed dark thoughts began to tug at the corners of his mind. Anders missing at the same time as a Templar in Lowtown, all while a Tevinter Avenger coincidentally ran into Hawke seemed to be setting the stage all too well.


	7. Chapter 6 - The Courtesan and the Slave

"Of course, I would be happy to have you," Isabela said with all the sincerity she could muster, clasping a hand over Fenris's and patting it gently. "I mean, if you don't mind that we're going to be crammed in there like nugs." She flashed a grin. "Unless that was your plan all along, you saucy little charlatan."

Fenris shook his head and tugged his hand away. "Nothing of the sort, but for a variety of reasons Danarius's mansion is not presently safe."

"So you'll be moving in immediately then?" she asked, resting her elbows on the table and placing her chin in her palms.

Fenris rarely came into the Hanged Man, in fact the only times Isabela could remember him doing so were at Hawke's insistence on some sort of business and each of those times he would disappear into a corner or within the crowd, looking the part of a cat dropped in a bath tub, brooding and out of place, likely hissing at anyone that reached out to try to touch him. To see him walk through the door and make a direct path to Isabela had taken the breath from her lungs, at first attributing it to old habits and cravings, but a second thought made her realize it was more of a gasp, a fact she accepted with a certain torn reluctance.

Fenris was a pretty man, with a lean and hungry look no matter his expression. The few times she saw him smile it was a mask, a thin, translucent look as though it had been made of gossamer wrapped over a perpetual glare. He was feral and cautious but he was not judging, perhaps most fascinating to Isabela was that he was still a work in progress. Men half his age had already chiseled their conclusions into the stone of their minds and all things were filtered through that vision, but not Fenris. Even after having known him for years he still embraced new experiences and he would grow, change, digest new information and weigh it on its own merits, not on a scoreboard against past experiences.

For many years Isabela had entertained girlish and carnal curiosities about the man but they had never been anything but girlish curiosities that ended up a flirtatious remark casually brushed aside like a stray fly too curious for claimed honey.

She tried to conjure those feelings from the past into an inviting, pleasant, even hungering look of her own when Fenris had sat down but it was a fool's errand. Even when he had asked to room with her for an unspecified amount of time it failed to hold, it had been out of respect rather than lust that she had invited the man in and she was not entirely sure how she felt about that.

"But..." Isabela's voice trailed teasingly as she hoisted herself from her chair, leaning across the bartop and plucking a bottle of Orlesian white from the shelf. She suspected that it was much more likely to be a cheap, local vintage packaged in an old bottle the barkeep had found. It didn't matter to Isabela, alcohol was alcohol and she was fairly certain that Fenris didn't know the difference between a good or a bad vintage. "There will be such a scandal," she finally finished with a mischevious grin that tore at her lips. "Especially considering you uh..." she shook the bottle in her hand, swishing the gold contents about, "prefer the finer drinks."

Whether Fenris saw through her games or simply didn't feel the need to entertain them he rolled his eyes. He put out a hand. "Give me the bottle and I'll show you."

"I do like being shown," Isabela purred, uncorking the bottle and pouring a large swathe of the liquid into her own glass, taking an effort to twist the bottle about so that it created a small vortex in the cup. She then brought the bottle over Fenris's glass, doing the same for him. The Elf eyed the bottle with a look of perplexion before a more serious scowl befell the copper-skinned pirate.

Fenris did not share a word, instead reaching forward and taking his glass, swallowing the contents. His face did not wretch or contort against the assault as he slammed the glass down. "Kirkwall vintage," he said suddenly, "I can't place the year but these are not Orlesian grapes."

Isabela laughed slightly and swallowed her own contents. "Look at you," she cooed softly as she swished the contents about in her mouth. "When did you become such a master of wines?"

"It's pragmatism," Fenris admitted as he looked down at his glass, "I have had plenty of time to study my master's wines. And I know that the Hanged Man does not stock the best. Besides, the grapes of Kirkwall have a distinct taste to them. Your bottle can't fool me."

"Mhm," Isabela purred, finding herself slinking back into her old self, "you'll have to school me."

Fenris eyed her cautiously but beyond that offered no further words.

"Maybe I'll just keep you around to save me from getting ripped off, eh?" Isabela laughed as she swallowed the bitter liquid down her throat. Certainly not an Orlesian sweet, she thought to herself.

In truth, the pirate was never terribly fond of wines. It harkened back to the days when a ship was at her every beck and call, when she could moor in every port that would take her. She had sampled each of every wine, from the bitter fruit of Nevarra to the sweets of Orlais, each nation proclaimed the prominence of their own wine. As a foreigner she had become something of a novelty at parties, with the hosts offering her a variety of exotic wins and liquor, but if she were forced to act on honesty rather than courtesy she would admit that Ferelden spirits tasted about as good as the most laborious Orlesian wines.

Given her choice of drinks she always preferred a well brewed beer or a heavily distilled liquor, something that played no games about what it was or why she was drinking it. Wine was as much a candy or a juice as it was a beverage to Isabela.

"This means a great deal to me," Fenris cut in suddenly, tearing her from her thoughts. Her eyes wandered lazily up his body as she examined him.

"Mhm?" she offered as her only reply.

Before he could explain any further the door to the Hanged Man was pushed open with a dramatic start as the diminutive host of the tavern raised his arms as though he were expecting a hug to welcome him home. Isabela felt a certain wry disappointment that her conversation had been so intruded upon, but the sight of Varric left her unable to maintain any displeasure for more than a fleeting moment.

"Elf!" he proclaimed as his eyes fell upon Fenris, widening as they did so. "What brings you to my neck of the woods."

"Business," Fenris offered curtly, though when he heard the audible pout from Isabela he rolled his eyes and added, "and pleasure, I suppose."

Varric shot a single gloved finger in Fenris's direction as he approached the bar. "Don't get too comfortable," he insisted as the barkeep offered him a pre-filled stout of ale. "Hawke might come in here spitting fire like one of those old dragons. Or drakes? Don't your people call them drakes?"

"Dragons will suffice," Fenris said, amused as he watched the Dwarf consume the entirety of his tankard in a single gulp.

Isabela leaned forward, playfully jabbing at Varric. "Fenris is moving in with me," she bragged playfully.

"Isabela!" Varric roared, matching her tone. "What a scandal!"

"That's what I said!" she answered.

"And after I've spent...how many years asking for the same?"

"Oh there's just not enough room for two women in any room with you my paragon," she pouted with an overly exaggerated puppy eyes. Varic nodded happily as he swung the crossbow from over his shoulder, petting its base with a fondness usually reserved for lovers.

"Oh yes," Varric agreed, "Bianca is a stubborn bitch. I don't think she could handle another woman bunking with me."

"Don't I know it," Isabela agreed with a laugh.

Fenris looked visibly uncomfortable at the exchange. Though no stranger to the games between Varric and Isabela it was obvious that his proximity unnerved him, particularly without Hawke to act as some sort of buffer between the two. The visible strain between Hawke and Isabela lately only further taxed Fenris's senses.

Catching onto the dismay with a sidelong glance, Isabela leaned across the bar and offered him a gentle jab in the arm.

"So how long did you say you would be staying?" she asked in an attempt to bring the Elf back into the conversation.

"I'm not sure," Fenris admitted, "I should hope no more than a week. I can try to find more suitable lodgings if my needs should require it."

Isabela shook her head, extending her fingers so that her light punch turned more into a soft pet. "Think nothing of it. Take all the time you need, I barely use the damn room in any case."

Varric, who was hoisting himself into a seat nearby, chirped with a laugh, "She's happy enough with whatever gutter she passes out in every night I'm sure." Before Isabela had the chance at her own witty come back Varric twisted in his seat to regard Fenris. "So what brings you here, Elf? I haven't seen you in a while."

"There is a..." Fenris visibly picked his words carefully, "problem that I need to sort out. A tricky one with no clear answer."

"Is that so." Varric waved at a passing barmaid, who left him with a bottle of spirits before doing her best to scrub down one of the tables. "And all is good?"

"We'll see," Fenris said dryly.

Isabela clapped her hands in an attempt to break up the tension. "I think it'll be fun to have you here," she offered, "the crowd at the Hanged Man have been a right bunch of knocks of lately." Fenris raised a confused eyebrow at the expression. "They've been idiots. And boring to boot, I don't know what's happened."

"People are out of work," Varric explained, "usually the boring people have something to do. Now they're coming in here to get drunk."

"Is that all?" Isabela teased. "And here I thought they were just chasing after my reputation."

Fenris let an uncomfortable laugh slip through his lips as he took another swallow of the fake Orlesian white.


	8. Chapter 7 - A Knight Commander's Summons

By the fifth letter Aveline knew that the Knight-Commander's patience was growing thin. Her original attempts at summoning would have seemed to have a genuine pleasantness to them if they bore any seal but Meredith's, but as it went ignored and more summons arrived the strain to maintain polite had become too much. The latest had abandoned all concepts of pretext or diplomatic form, dashing right to the blunt point with not a drop of ink wasted on an excess word.

_Captain Aveline Vallen,_

_You have been summoned to the Circle to present yourself to Knight-Commander Meredith. Come at once._

It was stamped with the official seal of the Templar order, with the ominous noose of the Gallows pressed in the center to identify her as the Kirkwall chapter.

Like all the others, however, Aveline simply crumbled the paper in her hand and tossed it aside into a small pile that she was jokingly referring to as Mount Meredith, at least to herself.

Across from her, Donnic wore a concerned expression as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. The brown haired man watched the discarding of the letter with the same worried curiosity as all the others that had arrived. His mouth twitched as though he were trying to keep from saying something. Aveline's eyes drew up from the desk and caught him, smiling at his concern.

"That was the most demanding one yet," Aveline said with an amused snort. Donnic's face turned into a knowing frown and for a moment she felt pleasantly vulnerable. It was a mask she was trying to wear, as though with some sort of false jest she could diminish the gravity of thinly veiled threats from the Knight-Commander. For three days she had seen the letters pile up and though she would never willingly reveal her held breath and the trace of fear that coursed up her spine.

Donnic seemed to disapprove. "Maybe you should answer her," he advised through a furrowed brow.

"She'd like that wouldn't she?" Aveline snapped a little harder than she meant to. She let out a sigh and, she hoped, her feelings of anxiety with her breath. "To be honest with you it's starting to worry me.

"Then go see her," Donnic pressed.

"If she's so insistent that I kiss her shiny ass she can walk it down here so I can tell her no in my own office," Aveline chided playfully.

She resolved herself to simply ignore the letter like all the others, but it weighed on her mind throughout the day. When a knock came at her door several hours later she nearly jumped out of her seat, then dismissed the squeamishness with a frustrated growl. This was not her. Further, this was not how the Templars and the City Guard were supposed to operate.

It had been no secret that the Templars had burrowed into Kirkwall's politics like a tick for generations, indeed the Viscount before Dumar had even been ousted and presumably assassinated by Meredith herself. Aveline had always taken precautions in her assessment of that particular ordeal: it had been done and resolved before she had ever even come to Kirkwall and the story was murky, confused amongst every party that tried to tell it.

"I can't go see her," Aveline said sadly, "if it were my own hide I'd go in a second, but she's not summoning _me_, she's summoning the Captain of Kirkwall's guard, and I can't let her do that. She already thinks she's the bloody viscount because no one else has told her know, she can't control our guards too."

It was obvious Donnic could appreciate that, though he shared a similarly selfish look with her as he looked down. "It is one of the rare times I wish someone else were the guard captain."

It was a clumsy compliment that would have passed by most ladies, but Aveline smiled a warm blush at the words, knowing precisely what he meant. In her own way she felt the same.

"If she's so But when Aveline had taken the job as captain of the guard she had gone to the cell where Viscount Perrin Threnhold had died and simply stared at it, wondering if a similarly somber, black walled cell was in her future for defying Meredith.

With every angry letter her own end coming from a poisoned bowl of soup in one of those disgusting rooms seemed all that more inevitable. But there were many times that a guard, and most of all the guard captain, had to be brave, both on and off the battlefield. She could not and would not falter from her rightful position.

"You may enter," Aveline called out as she placed her hands atop the desk, folding them together. Another polished armored, gleaming knight of the Templar Order, though unlike the virgin that had been sent to chastise her three days ago this man was a well seasoned veteran, with tight hair that seemed firmly pressed and maintained daily. "Knight-Captain Cullen," she observed as he shut the door behind him and offered a gracious bow of his head.

"Guard Captain Aveline," he responded as he pulled a chair from her desk. "May I?" She gestured for him to sit and he did so.

"Has the Knight-Commnder tired of writing letters?" Aveline chided, doing her best to keep her tone diplomatic and measured.

Cullen offered what looked like a tired nod. "Yes, but that's not...entirely why I'm here. She did not send me. I would instead that you and I talk as officers and sers between each other. Would you come walk with me?"

Aveline pursed her lips. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

Cullen frowned and let out a frustrated sigh. "What an age when a Guard Captain and a Knight-Captain must play the game of politics and remain ever suspicious of each other." He threw an eye at the door as though he anticipated someone would suddenly intrude on their conversation. "I understand your hesitance and your suspicion of Meredith."

"It's more than that, Knight-Captain," Aveline insisted, "there's a line that she is trying to cross. She's growing too comfortable with her de facto authority over Kirkwall, I will not give her the illusion that she has any control over the city guard."

The Knight-Captain looked drained and only as he fidgeted in his chair did Aveline notice the heavy bags that hung under his eyes roofed by heavy lids. The man had not been sleeping well, if at all, and Aveline suspected that her own discomfort were for many of the same reasons.

"While I understand and credit to you your point, would it not be easier to just placate the woman? You have my oath that no harm will come to you. Be it necessary I will return with her oath as well, what is this small concession to a busy woman?"

Aveline shook her head, a glare of disapproval upon her features. "No, do you really think me so hollow in my position that I refuse her summons out of fear for my own body? It is the principle of the matter, it is about safeguarding the sacred trust the Viscount has given me. It is easier to gain power than it is to yield power. Every time one minister or one officer gives in to Meredith for the sake of convenience she is that much closer to cementing herself in a position from which we will never uproot her. She may have the minister of trade, she may have the minister of ships, she may have the minister of labor, but she will never have command of the City Guard, I give you that vow."

The words did not so much strike Cullen as they tapped on exposed wounds, a gentle flogging of thoughts he had clearly come to on his own and tried to argue against with no measure of success before ever meeting with Aveline. He tapped at his metal plated knee in thought before letting out a sigh and rising to his feet.

"I can't argue with you there," Cullen conceded, "and I would never ask a woman of convictions to abandon those. I will say my piece to the Knight-Commander and try to have her meet you on more neutral...amicable grounds."

"It is all I can ask for from you, Knight-Captain," Aveline said as she rose with him out of respect. "I presume this has to do with the missing Templar?"

Cullen nodded as he made his way for the door. "Her...methods are becoming extreme in how she intends to find him. But between you and myself, she's more agitated by the fact that the Grand Cleric informed her that she would have to cooperate with you until his fate has been discovered." A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by a sigh of relief from Aveline. "It's been a rough few days since Ser Josin disappeared," Cullen conceded, "but sometimes a little good news can go a long way."

As Cullen opened the door to leave Aveline felt as though she could leap out and kiss the Grand Cleric as images of a frustrated Meredith filled her mind.

"Good day to you, Knight-Captain," she said to him as he stepped out.

"And to you as well, Guard Captain," he said, closing the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 8 - Ink and Letters

It had been three days since Tiber Hawke had been asked to simply question Anders about what the mage knew of the missing Templar and yet he had so far failed in such a simple task. That fact was giving the Champion of Kirkwall a headache as he entered into his estate, a condition aided in no way by the sudden shift in lighting as he entered the antechamber, the bright sun of Kirkwall's afternoon contrasted by the dark, low lit candles of his mansion. Bodahn had kept the place so well maintained that Hawke never actually saw the candles get any lower, so dutiful was he in replacing them. The sweet smell of citrus incense greeted him as he entered the antechamber, a favorite of Hawke's.

"Good afternoon, Serrah Hawke!" Bodahn greeted as he looked up from a number of papers he had been sorting through. His hollow eyed son said nothing, but gave a similarly genuine greeting with the smile on his face. "You've some letters for you, waitin' on the desk. One was hand delivered by a rather stone lookin' fellow that I've taken to callin' a golem. Seemed right important."

Hawke blinked in confusion. "Thank you, Bodahn," he said, crossing the room to the writing desk at the base of the grand stair that led to his room.

"Golem," Sandal repeated strangely as though he enjoyed the sound on his lips. Hawke smiled as he sorted through the letters waiting for him. The message Bodahn had mentioned was easily distinguishable from the rest, a folded piece of material that was far finer than the paper that made up the rest. It felt more like silk to the touch and glowed with a certain sheen in the candlelight. The seal that held it together was a horse bucking on its hind legs and all at once he suspected he knew its origin.

Hawke slid the soft ribbon that was helping to hold its fold then broke the seal. The ink seemed no less expensive than the material it was written on, written in a beautiful script that Hawke almost had trouble reading due to the excellence of the calligraphy.

"It seems," he said to Bodahn as he read its contents, "I have been invited to dinner with Lord Horacious."

"Lord Horacious?" Bodahn offered, stepping forward to eye the letter with his master. "I'm afraid that name don't ring no bells, Serrah."

"I wouldn't expect it to. What does this say? Do you recognize it?" Beneath the dinner invitation was more elaborate script but written in a language that Hawke had never encountered before. The alphabet was visibly of the Common Tongue, but the words may as well have been soft spoken gibberish to him.

"Let me take a closer look," Bodahn said. Hawke gave him the letter and the aged Dwarf hobbled closer to a candle for a better view. He tried to mouth the words a few times before shaking his head and with a sigh gave the letter back. "Afraid I don't know any of them words, Serrah. Might be that they're Tevinter, they got that little hum to them, but that's just me guessin'."

"Tevinter," Hawke echoed as he stared at the words. It seemed as reasonable a guess as any. He had never heard the language spoken save for passing swears from under Fenris's breath, though when pressed for their meaning the Elf would instantly recoil, cursing the language as poison. "If he meant these as instructions he probably should have chosen a language I knew."

The rest of the letter was covered in the typical dull styles of an overly courteous attempt to allure Hawke into dining with the man. They were wasted on the Champion, he thought, as his own simple curiosity about Horacious was enough to bring him over.

"Will that be tonight then?" Bodahn asked. "Should I draw up a bath?"

"Yes," Hawke answered, "please." He shook his head and put the letter back down on the desk, sorting through the others as Bodahn stepped away to carry out his duties. By comparison the other messages were decidedly boring, simple updates on Hawke's investments, an invitation to a tournament in Ferelden he had no interest in attending, and a handful of business offers that reeked of manipulations and scams.

It was always a wonder, he thought, how many great ideas strangers had for other peoples' money.

When finished with the mail Hawke stepped toward the kitchen. "Golem," Sandal answered again, though his expression unchanging save for a slight smile every time he said the word. Hawke patted the boy dwarf on the shoulder before entering the kitchen, where Bodahn had prepared a small treat.

It was a common practice in Kirkwall for a noble to enjoy a small meal before attending a dinner invitation. Social norms and customs were as complex as they were varied, and though it was considered rude to turn down such an offer it was considered decidedly more unbecoming to eat more than one's fill, being seen as taking advantage of one's hospitality. Though Hawke could understand the concept, having been raised in Ferelden he could never find himself agreeing with the custom.

Even living in the modesty he did Hawke remembered the elaborate and filling feasts that would come with parties and festivals, with hosts delighted to see their guests eat their fill. His favorite was during the autumn festivals, when pumpkins the size of a dog were carved and shared amongst an excited dozen or so half-starved peasants and commoners, turned into every sort of pie and sweet that Hawke could imagine. By contrast his first dinner in Kirkwall had been a remarkably dull affair, with servants dashing away his plates and appearing with a modest dessert before he had even had a chance to appraise the taste of the meat his host had given him.

Hawke gulped down a goblet of light wine that Bodahn had prepared for him, a sweet from a local vintage whose grapes were plucked early so that the drinker could quench their thirst without the risk of intoxication. He then ate a small slice of glazed bread that was a little too drenched in butter for Hawke's liking, but had been a favorite of Isabela's and Varric's.

The thought of Isabela gorging herself on buttered bread brought a faint feeling of pain to Hawke's chest. Even though the sweet smell of citrus incense had long since drowned out her salted, but sweet, aroma he could still find himself detecting the phantom smell of her as he walked through the mansion. Her visits had been much more frequent before the showdown with the Arishok, to the point that Bodahn had gone so far as to calling her Messere Isabela and changing the candles to a scent he thought she would appreciate. She didn't, but he tried.

He remembered her stare she gave him after the Arishok had died. Even in that blood haze and overpowering fear he was able to see the look in her eyes, that stare of admiration and thanks. But when they locked eyes with one another she looked away, her passion suddenly turning to guilt and beyond a curt and unexpected "thanks" they had barely shared a word since.

Hawke had had half a mind to march into the Hanged Man and demand she put an end to her charade once and for all and just _talk_ to him, but the stubborn anger would usually get the best of him, then unwilling to concede that he was being stubborn he would try to rationalize it. She was busy. She had abandoned him. It would make a scene. She would come to him on her own time. He had waited the better part of a year and he was running out of excuses, the time was fast approaching that he would have to accept the situation for what it was.

The tense situation between the two had been no secret. Just as it had been three days ago at the Hanged Man there was an awkward silence that would enter the air whenever the two were in the same room. Whether she intended it or not it made Hawke feel as though he were the carrier of some sort of plague and his arrival made her frightened, dashing away from him in fear of catching the affliction herself.

Bodahn had asked about her only once, but the man was capable of reading Hawke's pained expression well enough that he knew better than to badger the point.

"I been told women are like flowers," Bodahn had said, his last words on the matter, "but it ain't true. Theys more like the moon, if you catch my meanin', always seems a be changin' every day a' the month, but when you see it all men get up and act all crazy about it."

Hawke had found it strangely curious to hear such profound comparisons to the moon from a Dwarf, but he appreciated the gesture.

On more than one occasion he had hoped that the woman would simply appear in his antechamber again, having come to her senses and surprising the Champion with her aggressive touch. It had happened before, had been the night he had finally _learned_ something about Isabela and despite the physical intimacy they had shared only then, as she spoke of her slain husband and her conspiring mother he had truly felt as though he'd touched and seen her for the first time.

Now every night before he would snuff out the candles and climb the grand stair to his bedchambers he would toss a longing glance at the enormous oak frame that was his mansion's front door and secretly hope that Isabela would be standing there, arms crossed. It never happened and though he was beginning to think it never would, he still clung to that slight hope.

"The bath is ready, Messere!" Bodahn called out from across the way. "And I've left your particularly goods within right reach. Since you'll be havin' dinner, I think Sandal and I are going to retire early for the night."

Hawke cleared his throat of the thoughts he had been harboring. "Yes, thank you," he yelled back, looking back down at the buttered bread that Isabela enjoyed so much.


	10. Chapter 9 - A Dog Speaks

Isabela's suite hardly passed for such a fancy name. As he had predicted it had only the barest of necessities, including a tattered dresser that had been repaired so many times that most of its materials did not even match anymore. There was a single bed, but as promised Isabela was rarely there to claim it, the one time she had Fenris had found her passed out drunk with a bottle in her hand, dangling over the side.

He had been comfortable enough on the floor, as long as he didn't think about what had likely marred the surface over the years. The character of the room perfectly suited the pirate, entirely utilitarian and serving every purpose she needed with not an inch wasted on pampered aesthetics or luxuries. Fenris wondered if this was how she preferred to reside because of the years she had spent aboard a ship and how similar her cabin must have been.

All of her glamor had been spent on her person, most of it in that pretty gold necklace that she wore, her living arrangements were all a matter of practicality. Except for the strange leather straps that hung over her bed, which had caused Fenris to tilt his head and eye them. They looked like a harness of some sort, or the bridle to a horse.

"What are those?" Fenris had asked when he ran out of plausible ideas for them.

Isabela had skirted around the question. "Oh those," she said with a start, "they're just decoration really."

"Odd decoration."

Now the leather harness bothered him every time he walked in, taking a moment to gander at them, and once even gripping them to get a sense of their strength. He suspected they would have well supported his weight, so he rationalized that perhaps they were for exercise, though he never saw Isabela actually use them.

Nights at the Hanged Man did not seem all that different from nights in the estate he had lifted from Danarius, save for the quality of the drink. The company could at times be pleasant and he enjoyed conversation with Varric, but there were times it was simply too much. At nights it could be difficult to sleep with the rancorous singing from below or the whores earning their keep from a nearby room. And the crowds often got to him. His first night at the Hanged Man had caused a swell of anxiety to clutch at his chest with a cold iron grip. After years of spending the nights alone the sights, the sounds, they were too much, overloading him and he'd been forced to call an early night. Though he could feel Varric's eyes on him as he retreated the Dwarf pleasantly said nothing.

Fenris wandered to the tavern below where the barkeep was polishing the grime from the tankards with a dirty rag. During the day time the Hanged Man was much more quiet and subdued, usually populated with sailors enjoying their precious few days of shore leave before they were swept back into the monotonous blue sea.

"Was some men askin' about you," the barkeep said without looking at Fenris, still fixated on the paradox of the tankard becoming more dirty when scrubbed with a filthy piece of cloth. Fenris's ears perked up and his eyes narrowed.

"Who? What were they asking?"

"Halfs and halfs about your friend to be sure. They asked how often you come in here, if they guess right at your friend bein' a sailor or pirate or some such."

Fenris could feel a soft glow of rage in his eyes. "What did you tell them?"

Finally the barkeep put the tankard down and looked Fenris in the eye, his face a mock of pain. "I told them this is a right establishment and if they have questions they can ask you themselves. I ain't in the business of sellin' whispers and losing customers. That's carta business that is."

"I see," was all Fenris could say. He tapped the bar to indicate he was craving a drink and the barkeep obliged, placing a fresh mug of warm beer before him. It was not Fenris's preferred beverage, but he preferred it to the horrible wines that the Hanged Man had available to them. He suspected, though, that he was simply spoiled by Denarius's selection.

Any further thoughts were intruded when the main door opened, causing Fenris to swing in his chair, letting out a sigh of relief when he realized it was only Hawke. Despite his status placing him well above the Hanged Man he rarely dressed the point, though tonight he was garbed in a kind of fine silk that made Fenris cock an eyebrow.

"You smell of peaches," Fenris noted as Hawke sat down next to him.

Hawke fidgeted until he was comfortable on the barstool, then groaned, looked down to see if he'd gotten anything on his clothes, then fidgeted again. "Yes, well," Hawke said, "now I smell of piss."

"Awfully dressed up for a night at the Hanged Man."

"I'm not staying," Hawke explained as he reached into his coat and retrieved an opulent looking piece of paper and placed it on the table. "I need your help with something." He unfolded the document, but the words on it meant nothing to the illiterate Fenris.

"I can't read, Hawke," Fenris said, a hint of shame and anger on his voice.

"I understand that, but you can speak. How much Tevinter do you remember?"

"Enough."

"Good." Hawke cleared his throat. "Horacious invited me to dinner. Everything on here is typically cordial, but the bottom of the letter seems Tevinter. I was hoping..."

Fenris stared, confusedly, at Hawke.

"If I read you the words can you tell me what they mean?"

"Maybe," Fenris said, eyeing the Tevinter script. "I haven't spoken conversationally in a very long time. And you'll probably muddy the accent."

"Well you're the only one I know that can help me decipher it and seeing as Horacious involves you..."

"Let's get this over with," Fenris said, a little more curtly than intended.

As expected Hawke struggled with many of the words. On more than one occasion Fenris was forced to interject and correct the man's pronunciation, though the Elf was forced to admit that they were likely guessing at the word at that point.

"Indi..ind...indoo...it?" Hawke stuttered.

"Inuidetur," Fenris corrected. "It means evil eye. Watched.."

Putting the words together caused a sudden snap in Fenris's head. He shook his head as he ran them over, disbelieving the words. His eyes wandered over to the barkeep.

"Say it all together again," he insisted as he imagined the men interrogating the barkeep.

"_Tibi cum amico cauendum est, enim inuidetur," _Hawke complied, the words coming off his tongue awkwardly.

Fenris growled to himself. "It's a threat," he said angrily. "It says, 'For you it is necessary to watch out with your friend, for he is being...watched..' He's letting you know he's tracking me."

"Why would he so overtly reveal his hand like that?" Hawke asked, glancing at the letter and shaking his head.

"Tevinter slave hunters are a boastful lot." Fenris tapped the letter. "Especially the wealthy ones. He probably thought you wouldn't be able to translate it, a little joke before he made his move. Besides," Fenris gestured to the bartender, "men were here...asking about me."

Hawke frowned. "Is that so?" he demanded of the barkeep. The man shared a look with Hawke, exchanging glances between him and Fenris before finally nodding.

"Aye, it's true," he acknowledged, "four men askin' what was the Elf's business, asking about his companion."

"Companion?" Hawke asked.

"Isabela," Fenris explained. "I'm staying with her until we resolve this Horacious issue."

"I see," Hawke said, the pain in his face evident. Fenris regretted the revelation almost instantly.

"It's not like that," Fenris tried to insist, but Hawke waved him silent.

"What were these men wearing?" Hawke demanded, his hazel eyes stern and intimidating enough to set the barkeep back a step.

"I uh," the barkeep stammered a moment as he recalled them, "they was dressed foreign messere. Lots of greens and blues, the biggest one had purple."

Hawke reached into his belt and plucked the coin purse from it, reaching in for a couple of gold sovereigns. "Let me know if they come back. They ask around too much, you let my friend here know and you hustle them out, got it?"

The barkeep eyed the sovereigns for a moment, his eyes glinting at his good fortune before sliding them off the counter. "You're a good man, messere."

"Just do it," Hawke reiterated. He then looked at Fenris. "You just be careful."

"That the Elikdos already tracked me here is disconcerting," Fenris agreed, shifting out of his seat with Hawke. "If he thinks he'll take me easily..."

"Don't go looking for them," Hawke warned, "I'm going to go meet with him right now, we'll talk when I'm done."

The moment felt heavy for Fenris as he watched Hawke leave. A large part of him wanted desperately to retrieve his sword and follow after the Champion, play the part of valet and see this Horacious for himself, but wisdom was able to temper his rash urges and with a long sigh he returned to his seat, content to wait for Hawke's report.

Not long after Hawke had left Isabela slid into the bar, graceful as ever, all beads and golden smiles.

"Isabela," Fenris said as she passed, grabbing her attention. "We have a lot to talk about."


	11. Chapter 10 - A Gift Horse in the Mouth

If Horacious had any concept of subtlety it was not visible as Hawke approached his estate. Even if he weren't outright looking for the man it would be impossible to not notice the enormous mansion that he had presumably rented, emblazoned with his black horse sigil in enormous purple banners that sputtered in the wind. The sun had since dipped during the trek from the Hanged Man to Hightown and Hawke was glad for the marble beneath his feet when he thought about how elaborately he had dressed. Times were desperate in Lowtown and even his reputation as the Champion would not be a sufficient shield against the pangs of hunger in a man at the end of his rope.

An enormous brass knocker in the shape of a gargoyle was on the center of the estate's door. The metal polish had worn off under years of use, leaving a chip in the wooden frame. Hawke rapped the gargoyle against the door and almost instantly it was pulled open to reveal a thin, pale skinned man with a perfectly shaved head. He was nearly skeletal, with wiry, bony hands and it didn't seem as though he had a hair on his body and Hawke was certain that if he weren't wearing a robe that probably weighed more than him he would be able to see traces of ribs.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, I presume?" the man said in a neutral voice seemingly bereft of accent.

"Tiber Hawke, at your service," Hawke said with a bow of his head. The skeletal man stepped aside and gestured for Hawke to enter. The inside of the mansion was well lit, with braziers that billowed orange and blue flames into the air. Elaborate paintings of men with goatees and twisted braids covered nearly every wall.

The scrawny servant led Hawke through the antechamber into the dining room. They encountered nearly a dozen other servants who were directed away from the two with a glare from the bald man, urging compliance. As they approached the dining room Hawke was assailed by every sweet and delectable scent he could imagine, the overpowering smell of roasted and sauced meats competing for dominance against the aroma of sugar, cream, and pastries.

The assault of smells only came on harder when the servant opened the door to the dining hall which was lit even brighter than Kirkwall at noon. At the head of a table that stretched the length of the room was the impossible to miss Horacious in what looked like red velvet robes. The blue streaks in his hair seemed to shine more visibly, leading Hawke to wonder if he had recently re-dyed them. Enormous poles of fingers deftly took a biscuit and tore it in two with the kind of grace that no doubt led to his massive size.

"The Champion of Kirkwall!" he called out in his peculiar accent, eyes drawn away from his meal. Laid out before him was a hefty serving with a roasted pig at the center, the light bouncing off the oil and grease the hog was drenched in. Standing behind Horacious like a stone statue was the tattooed man, looking no different than he had on the streets of Lowtown, black pony tail draped over his shoulder. He was still wearing that black steel armor, impossibly long sword strapped to his back. His eyes shifted to follow Hawke's movements but like before he said nothing. Horacious took a large bite from his biscuit and after only a couple chews swallowed, then cleared his throat. "I was unsure if you would heed my summons, yes? We started without you, my deepest apologies. Please, have a seat."

"Summons?" Hawke said cautiously, his tone measuring as he took a seat near Horacious. His eyes were drawn to the bodyguard and for a moment all four eyes locked on each other. Hawke also cleared his throat. "My valet met your...bodyguard. He called him a golem."

It took a moment for Horacious to understand, but when he did he let out a laugh so hard that Hawke thought he might burst at the seams. The plump Tevinter threw his head back to look at the bodyguard, even patted him on the arm as the spasms of laughter sputtered out of him.

"A golem," Horacious echoed, shaking his head and leaning forward into his food. "Your servant has the eye is what he does. A golem? I am afraid nothing so exciting." Horacious clapped his fat hands together, conjuring a number of servants bearing an assortment of dishes. One girl placed a bowl of soup in front of Hawke that had a particularly fishy aroma carried on the trails of steam. Another pretty girl with blue hair placed a cup and filled it with a deep, blood red wine. "It is eel soup," Horacious explained, "very delicious."

"Curious," Hawke explained as he eyed the chunks of meat in the soup. "Dinner seemed ready when I came in, why the special course just for me?"

Horacious frowned, the folds of his skin nearly enveloping his brow. "I already enjoyed my eel soup, yes? You think this to poison you? That I would do such a thing..." he gestured toward the bodyguard behind him, "if I wished you dead Champion, Titus would be more than happy to do so. Easier to dispose of this way, yes? And what profit do I gain? From killing the most famous man in Kirkwall when we are both seeking the same thing?"

"Are we?" Hawke poked one of the chunks in his soup. "I already know I can't trust you."

Perhaps growing tired of the exchange, Horacious lifted a hand and gestured for Titus, then pointed at the soup. The tall bodyguard cleared the distance, his metal clanking with each step. Towering over Hawke, he reached down and took the bowl of soup in his hands, then swallowed half of its contents in a single gulp. With a grunt he placed it back down in front of the Champion.

"Just so," Horacious chirped, clapping his hands together again. "Now I am afraid we are on the wrong foot? Do not trust me? We have known each other for too short a time to determine trust, I think."

Satisfied as he watched Titus return to his post, Hawke reached down with his fork and skewered a piece of eel. It tasted smoked, a delicious crumble to the meat that made his taste buds savor. He washed it down with a gulp of wine. It was bitter and dry, but intoxicating and powerful.

"For one thing," Hawke said when he'd found his voice again, "I know that Elikdos is not a name. You're a hunter."

Thought caught, Horacious simply smiled warmly, stroking his beard. "Just so," he conceded. "A student of the Tevinter language?"

"I know a few," Hawke countered. "You lied, you're not here for the dead Templar."

"I lied yes, but only about the name. I am quite here for the Templar. Ser Josain's end is all that concerns me. It is curious. Many men would wish to harm a Templar, many do, but to make him disappear so completely?" Horacious clucked his tongue and reached for a buttered piece of pork. "That is a true skill. A true skill indeed."

"Why would a Tevinter avenger give two shits about a Templar killed halfway across the world?" Hawke was growing uneasy, he would have been more content if the man had played the part of a caught fish, but the pleasant and warm smile that he wore only seemed to make matters worse.

"Those are matters we won't discuss, yes? I am sorry, perhaps it will be revealed in time, but I cannot do this thing yet."

The two shared a moment of silence as Hawke finished his soup. When he pushed it aside Horacious clapped again and the servant girls returned, plucking away the bowl and carving a piece of the pig before handing it to him. A skewered potato and sweet yams covered the remaining portion of the plate. Hawke took a bite before pointing to Titus.

"I don't suppose he'd tell me anything," Hawke accused, "he does seem the quiet type."

Horacious giggled and clapped his hands together once more. "Just so!" he agreed. "Titus, show the Champion, won't you?"

Titus stepped forward and took a knee so that he was closer to Hawke's height while seated. The Champion was confused, exchanging glances between Horacious and Titus until the bodyguard opened his maw, and finally Hawke understood. The man had a scarred gash where his tongue should have been.

"When I bought him he had the option of his balls or his tongue. It is perhaps no surprise that the man went for the tongue, no?" Hawke stared long and hard at the man's mouth, shaking his head and looking back at Horacious.

"Why?" Hawke finally asked when he found the words.

"A slave should lose a part of him so that he depends on you, yes? It is wisdom. A man with no balls has no ambition and is excellent at protecting your hens. But I rather they have no tongue. He could never betray me and I can reward him with one of my hens. He cannot read or write, so no matter the torture he has no way of yielding my secrets and he has many of them." Horacious cooed as he looked at Titus. "So...so many of them."

"It's a wonder he hasn't run off, or strangled you in your sleep," Hawke observed. Titus finally closed his mouth, his teeth clanging as they slammed together.

"Titus is loyal. He is a good dog, unlike some," Horacious explained, the comparison setting Hawke on edge. "So you have deciphered my occupation, this is good, there can be no more pretense between us then. This is good. I trust then you also deciphered my letter."

"It was...difficult, but yes." Hawke fidgeted in his seat, leaning forward and pressing his hands together. "A threat?"

"But no!" Horacious hissed. "A warning. There are many eyes in this city, they seem to be falling on your friend. Those eyes would see great harm befall him, even if he knows nothing."

Now Hawke was truly confused. He shook his head in frustration. "Who are you talking about exactly?"

Horacious looked confused right back. H e dipped his fingers into a pool of cream and smeared it onto a pastry before tossing it in his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, "Your magefriend with the clinic."

"Anders?" Hawke exclaimed more than asked. "What of him? Where is he?"

"You have not spoken with him?" Horacious asked slowly, narrowing his eyes. "That is unfortunate, he has much to say. Most of it lies, I'm afraid. But he should be protected, but questioned too, so many interesting things to say."

"What has he done? What part does he have to play in all this?"

"I told you, he had very little to say to me. Hopefully we can share stories once you have spoken to him."

Hawke ran his hands through his hair as though he were going to rub the irritation from his scalp. "Where is he?"

"I estimate he is at his clinic now," Horacious explained, "I met him near the Sundermount where he seemed to have many strange dealings with the Dalish."

"What in the devil..." Hawke's thoughts were a maelstrom and before he could put any more to words he swallowed the wine to his right. "What was he doing there?"

"Talking to the Dalish, as I have said," Horacious explained. He rose then, pushing his chair back with a loud grind. Titus offered his arm for stability. "Unfortunately, at the risk of seeming rude I must retire. The day has been long, Serrah Hawke. If you would like you may use any of my slaves as you see fit. Stay the night, yes? Or do not, but I will be in contact."

Without another word Titus and Horacious left the dining hall, leaving Hawke with only a handful of serving girls who eyed him welcomingly as they carried out their tasks of emptying the table of dishes.


	12. Chapter 11 - The Harlot and the Hound

"How exciting!" Isabela exclaimed, clapping her hands together. She was sitting on the bottoms of her legs, squatting down on her mattress on her knees. "I mean, forgiving the part where it could end in your return to slavery of course, but we won't let that happen." She added to the last part with a gentle touch on Fenris's shoulder. The Elf sulked even more than usual, but she could not tell if that was from his plight or her merry response to it.

He growled a bit and adjusted himself in his seat. "Exciting is hardly the word I'd use," he finally said, as expected.

"Oh don't be so glum. They'll come waltzing up into the Hanged Man chanting all sorts of Tevinter devilries and then I'll duel their leader for the right to your hand. It'll be so terribly romantic."

Fenris's eye twitched. "You mean like Hawke did for you?"

The mirth was sapped from Isabela's face as she suddenly looked as though she'd been slapped. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits for a moment before she cleared her throat angrily, then stood up, looking down at Fenris.

"Well aren't you just a piss in the swimming pond," she said distastefully. "Talking about Hawke is no fun," she whined playfully, "why don't we do something _fun_."

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "What precisely did you have in mind?"

"Well," Isabela said as she slid back down onto the bed, propping her back against the wall. "You've been so curious, why don't I show you what those straps are for?" As she spoke her arms raised and her hands entwined with the two straps she was speaking of, doing a splendid job of pushing out her breasts for a free gawk from Fenris. The Elf did not seem to be taking the bait however. She tried to keep a frown from splaying across her features. "Have you really not guessed yet? No matter, it'll be fun, get over here you, let's see what I've been missing."

"No," Fenris said curtly. Isabela's grimace returned and the Elf sighed. "Why are you doing this?

"Because it's fun and you look like you need some fun to get your mind off Tevinters and slavers and mages."

Fenris rubbed at his temples in exasperation. "Isabela," he said quietly, "Hawke..."

"Oh by Andraste's _cunt_," Isabela yelled, leaping to her feet and throwing her hands in the air. "Hawke, Hawke, Hawke, that's all I ever hear from anyone anymore. Since when did everyone care so much about me and Hawke? I roll with him once in his bed and suddenly it's a god damn crisis."

Fenris's hands fell to the arms of his chair. "I'd say it was a little more than a roll, Isabela. Hawke doesn't fight the Arishok in a duel of honor for a whore's night out, and you don't abandon your fortune for one either."

The woman growled again. "You of all people should understand," she hissed under her breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I do one good deed and have one night's fun with a man and suddenly I have to be shackled down?" Isabela was beginning to pace angrily, shake even as she spoke. "I am _free_, Fenris, and I want to _stay_ free. I want to drink what I want, talk to who I want, and sleep with who I want, and I don't want those green eyes of his staring at me like I'm a harlot everytime I do so."

"Is that so different than he looks at you now?" Fenris pressed. "But I think we both know that Hawke trying to tie you down isn't what this is about."

Isabela sneered for a moment, doing her best to look like the indignant accused, while trying to mask the reality that Fenris had called her bluff. She finally let out a sigh and fell to the bed.

"Why haven't you just...spoken to him?" Fenris urged. "This silence is helping no one. You're dragging him through the mud with whatever self loathing has gotten the best of you."

"As though you're one to talk," Isabela hissed venomously, though the moment the words left her mouth she regretted them, cupping her hands over her lips in a look of horror. "I'm so sorry, Fenris," she pleaded. The man simply waved a hand dismissively.

"Talk to him," he insisted again, "no matter what comes of it he deserves that much at least for what he did for you."

Isabela struggled with the thought. She had been content to simply ignore the matter in the desperate hope that it would just go away. Night after night on her nocturnal prowls through Kirkwall she would find herself hoping that she would spy upon Hawke having finally given up on her, throwing himself into the arms of another woman with which he could be content. Then everything would be easier: she'd drown herself in rum for a night, find and punish some poor, unsuspecting lover, complain about her lack of a ship and the wrongs of the world would be righted.

She realized then, to her chagrin, that above all else she had lost herself in a sea of excuses. She had shackled herself to each of them more intently than she ever would have been bound to Hawke. Her claims of craving freedom were a lie she told herself to justify her bondage in the chains of those very lies.

Maybe Fenris was right, she thought to herself, maybe she should just see him, just talk to him.

"He does deserve that much doesn't he?" Isabela finally conceded sadly, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you're going to kill the Arishok for me maybe I should bless him with conversation."

Fenris shrugged. "Worst that could happen is that the charade will end at least."

Isabela's heart felt heavy then. A year's worth of mistakes roared into her mind and she clucked her tongue at the amusement of her realizations coming only after she had thrown herself at Fenris. The woman sighed and growled, smiled and grimaced. All the while Fenris watched her, stone faced with etched edges.

"You're ever the optimist," she offered dryly, lifting herself from the bed. "But when? How?"

"Whenever you know you can run into him, I suppose," Fenris explained. "Just so long as you stop putting it off."

Her feet wanted to carry her out of the Hanged Man and back to Hightown where she looked as out of place as any of the lords would in Lowtown. Her past with the Champion was no secret however, she had even heard a bard at the Blooming Rose regaling the tale with a piece he called "The Champion and the Arishok", but it did not earn her any less stares of contempt from the well to dos. Rather than bother her, however, she found a certain, pleasant strength when she locked eyes with a powdered lady who gasped as the pirate whore passed by. But she wasn't ready she realized and her heart became heavy again. Was she simply covering herself in more excuses?

"Tomorrow," she said, monitoring Fenris for his response. "It's getting late, I don't know where he is, and if the slavers come back..."

"Tomorrow is fine," Fenris agreed.


	13. Chapter 12 - A Templar's Sword

Darktown was a unique slum, the beggars and disparate so entrenched in squalor that they would look above to Lowtown with unsurpassed envy. The mold covered caves belched out the stench of human waste and rot. Anders had done his best to provide a refuge for the sordid and forgotten, but more often than not Hawke had realized that the mage was treating their pain, making their ending soft, but with little hope to stop or even delay that end. Hawke hated walking through the reclusive caves where the only light was what sun crept in through crevices and illuminated the filthy faces of refugees and men, women, and children who had lost hope.

Here Hawke would not dare to travel without his full suit of armor, hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Covered head to toe in steel a trained man could hold his ground against the entirety of Darktown throwing themselves at him, and on more than one occasion Hawke had wondered if he would have to do just that. Scrawny, skeletal children with potted bellies scurried past him like rats and their desperate fathers eyed a thousand meals hidden somewhere in the Champion's armor.

But the damage done to Darktown could not be solved by throwing gold at the matter. The caves above the sewers had been the resting place of refugees since the Blight five years ago and now it was a permanent fixture of Kirkwall's interior, an ugly truth that was whispered about at dinner. The occasional noble would announce their desire to help the poor dog lords that inhabited the lowest levels of the city and host a grand dinner, raise what money they could so that they could cluck like a rooster at their own compassion, then Darktown's residents would benefit from a sandwich or two delivered by disgusted knights.

Hawke, for better or worse, had tried to put Darktown out of his mind. At first he had wanted to siphon money to the poor, had even talked Varric into rerouting "missing" shipments of grain down there, but in time he realized that there was no altruism in his actions. He was doing it for himself and the resources were only making matters worse. Every silver crown that entered Darkwall was stolen by one of the gangs, every pound of grain absconded by the thugs and sold back to the residents for the silvers they didn't take in the first pass.

It felt no better to realize that he was abandoning the people to their fate but Hawke was forced to come to terms with the fact that there were some wrongs in the world he could not hope to right. That did not make any step through the disgusting, soft roads matted with grime and Maker knew what else any easier.

Eyes that had not seen the sun in ages watched his every step, like scavengers secretly hoping that the man would falter like so many others had in Darktown. There were no predators in Darktown save for the gangs, who preferred to operate topside in Lowtown, where their muscle was needed. Below they ruled by fear, letting the withered husks of bones scrape amongst each other and fight for what dripped from Lowtown, showing up only to bang the drums of extortion and terror.

Nestled in what may have been one of Kirkwall's earliest villas was Anders's clinic, the ruined shell of what could have passed for a house from a bygone age. Now it was tattered and ruined, but the mage had done his best to fortify it and keep it as clean as he could. It had a tangy aroma, smelling of the balms, herbs, and ointments that he kept on hand, making the bolted and locked door a barrier against the unwashed stenches of Darktown.

Usually a small line stretched from the door across the alleyway, the waiting patients occasionally sitting on the edges of the cavern where they could overlook a drop into the valley below, swinging their legs. Today there was nothing, a strange silence hung that seemed unnatural. There were no tired, hungry eyes looking up at Hawke as he approached the clinic, the only sound the wind howling through the valley outside. Unlike before, however, Anders's door was half open, indicating that the mage was actually there. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed it open, though his eyes widened at the spectacle inside.

Two Templars in full battle regalia towered over Anders, who was pointing toward the door and shouting something indecipherable at them. Between the three was Aveline in her own set of armor, her hands on chests as she tried to keep the Templars from simply reaching out and grabbing Anders, or perhaps vice versa.

"I've already spoken with the Knight-Commander," Aveline roared, interrupting the fight between Anders and the two Templars, "you have _no_ authority to take a citizen under my protection."

The taller of the two Templars on the right snapped a look at Aveline, but his expression was hidden by his steel helmet.

"The bastard is an apostate," he bit back angrily, "I'll haul him away on my own authority, or the Maker's if you prefer."

"If you try there will be blood, I swear it," Aveline was unrelenting, pushing the man back and reaching for her sword. The two Templars did likewise and Anders slinked back, reaching for the staff on his back.

Hawke dashed forward, grabbing one of the Templars by the arm and swinging him away. Caught off guard the man swung his sword out of its sheath and pointed it at Hawke, though he backed away almost instantly as soon as he recognized the Champion of Kirkwall. "Messere," the Templar growled under his breath respectfully.

"What is going on down here?" Hawke demanded, chastising each of the participants with his eyes.

"We've reason to believe this apostate is involved in the death of Ser Josain and I mean to bring him in," the Templar explained, jabbing a finger at Anders. Hawke's stomach churned as he looked at the mage, then at Aveline, then back at the Templar. "This guard bitch saw it fit to involve herself in Chantry business."

"I was given the Knight-Commander's word that this remained a _criminal_ matter," Aveline roared and Hawke noticed she was still gripping the hilt of her sword, "I have the Grand Cleric's blessing in this matter."

Hawke interjected before the Templar could respond. "Think about where you are," he reasoned, "think about who he is. You walk out of here with Anders in tow and you're going to get swamped by an armed mob that depend on him." He heard a sigh from Anders, but did not back down. "When you report your disobedience to the Knight-Commander do you intend to add a bloodbath in Darktown to it?"

The Templars shared a look between one another. A grunt came from the smaller of the two as he tried to picture the scenario Hawke had described.

"Just go," Hawke warned, struggling to add a hint of compassion and empathy to his tone, "Aveline has been the guard captain this long for a reason. Trust her."

"We'll report this to the Knight-Commander herself, Champion," the bigger Templar threatened as he slid the sword back into is scabbard. "Don't be surprised if we return tomorrow.

"Then don't be surprised if blood fills the streets tomorrow," Anders shot back, sharing the first clear words Hawke had heard him speak. The Champion grimaced and turned to speak, but Aveline beat him to it.

"Be silent," Aveline hissed, reaching forward and grabbing his collar, ruffling the black feathers of his jacket, "for the love of Andraste and all that is good be silent for once in your life."

It seemed like a brutally difficult pill to swallow, made all the worse when he glanced at Hawke looking for some sort of support, only to find a stern glare on his friend's face.

Finding any further exchange pointless, the tall Templar bowed his head. "Champion," he said before spinning about, slapping his companion on the shoulder. "Ser Gwain, let us off." Hawke watched them leave, then winced as Aveline stepped after them and slammed the door to the clinic so hard that he thought it might come off its hinges. She turned her glare on Anders who himself was a mess of frustration and anger.

"You are making this impossible on all of us," she said, though her voice was nearly pleading. She looked heavily at Hawke. "I asked you to talk to him."

"I couldn't _find_ him," Hawke insisted, unsure how much of his conversation with Horacious to reveal to Aveline.

"I had affairs to deal with," was Anders's only explanation, exposing his palms.

"I don't think you realize how delicate this situation is," Aveline continued, starting to pace across the room and rubbing at her temples.

Hawke watched her. "What were they talking about. Ser Josain's death? Anders involved? Have they found a body?"

"Thankfully no," Aveline explained, "but there have been whispers. They're giving up the hope that he's still alive. I was able to argue based on his reputation that maybe he just ran off, that bought us some time."

"Ran off?" Hawke queried. "Why would you think that?"

Anders was the one to interject, pulling out a chair and sitting into it before speaking. "Ser Josain was called 'Soft Hands'. He was a coward that only joined the Templars to avoid a hanging for abandoning his post in the army. If he ran from one post he can run from another."

Hawke frowned. "I'm amazed at how little I know about this particular investigation," he complained angrily with a long glare at Aveline.

"That's because he probably didn't run away," Aveline conceded, "odds are he is dead. The evidence isn't adding up to a desertion." Hawke turned his frown on Anders, who was now leaning forward on his knees and catching his breath as the adrenaline of the previous confrontation began to wear off. "Anders," Aveline continued, "Meredith is ready to drag you into the Gallows and put you to the rack until you speak."

"That she would," Anders scoffed, "she would pay for every split joint."

"That's not the _point_," Aveline protested, finally stopping, spinning to face him and stomping a foot. "This is all a distraction. I can't protect you if you provoke them like this."

"I have done nothing but exist, which seems fine enough reason for them to put me to the rack."

Aveline looked like she was ready to strangle the smaller mage, but good sense took over. "I can't deal with this right now," she said at length, shaking her head. "With this bloody lottery being drawn soon things are at a boiling point and the last thing I need is to divert guards because you keep shaking meat at a starving bear."

"That lottery is a stupid idea," Anders said under his breath, "bread and circus when this city needs a viscount."

"I know that!" Aveline roared. "But I can't just bloody well pick one now can I? Hawke for the love of the Maker, talk some sense into him. I'm only here because I caught the Templars slinking into the sewers to try to ambush him." She did not stay for another word, instead tearing open the door and slamming it behind her, leaving Anders staring at Hawke, who himself was wearing a look somewhere between concern and confusion.

"We're going to talk, right now Anders," Hawke said through clenched teeth, "and you're going to give me every answer I need."

Anders sat back in his chair and folded his hands, resting them in his lap. "What would you have answered?"

"What were you doing with the Dalish?"

"Consulting them," Anders said, his answer far too quick and simple for Hawke's tastes.

"Horse shit," Hawke said. He reached over and grabbed his own chair, needing to be off his feet and slamming his body down into it. "What were you doing with the Dalish?"

Anders looked away for a moment, his eyes narrowing as though he were formulating an answer, then he turned his look back on Hawke. With a sigh he continued. "They were having a spiritual crisis. I was in the area and I told them where the Chantry stood on the matter of spirits."

Hawke sighed and looked down, pressing his forehead into his hands. "I can't help you if you won't reason with me."

"I appreciate everything you have ever done for me, Hawke," Anders explained softly, his voice becoming something closer to a whisper, "but I don't need, or want your help. Not with this."

"You don't?" Hawke demanded, snapping his head back up. "The bloody Knight-Commander means to pop your joints like sticks of candy because of a missing Templar, I think we're well past the point of needing my help." Anders did not have an answer beyond a sigh that was both confused and frightened.

"How did you know about my time with the Dalish?" Anders diverted carefully, his eyes suspicious.

"What did you talk to Horacious about?" Hawke snapped back. Anders recoiled a moment, then chewed his lip.

"The Tevinter?"

Hawke nodded.

"That doesn't concern you."

Hawke leaped out of his chair and flung it to the side. "Dammit Anders," he roared, "I need you to work with me on this. I'm your friend, I have always been here for you."

Anders nodded. "You have."

"Then for the love of all that is good, _help_ me on this. Please."

Anders said nothing. Instead he calmly rose to his feet then turned his back on Hawke. At the other end of the room he opened a crate and withdrew a long object covered in a burlap shawl. Hawke felt his blood run cold when Anders turned back around and withdrew the cover, revealing a sword underneath. The mage unceremoniously threw it on the ground, where it clattered at Hawke's feet.

Hawke froze as he watched it. The blade was a fine piece of steel, but the pommel was that of a wolf's head, with etched platinum dyed black for the grip..

"What," Hawke started, slowly emphasizing each word, "in the hell is that?"

"Do you not recognize a Ferelden family crest when you see it?" Anders scoffed. "That is the weapon of Ser Josain Tubult."

Hawke shook his head in disbelief, his eyes falling on Anders. "What did you do?"

"Me?" Anders said as he looked at the blade, revulsion and adoration splitting his expression. "I have done nothing."

"Where did you get that?" Hawke pressed, taking a step forward. Anders put up a hand to stop him.

"It's true Ser Josain is dead," Anders explained, "but not by my hand. I am simply the shield of those who did it." As he spoke his voice gave a crack like thunder, the edges of his face basking in a soft, radiant glow, almost too subtle to notice. "And I will remain silent about those who have taken the Templar's life, they are under my umbrella of silence."

Hawke shook his head slowly, his eyes hardened. He felt as though he had been punched in the gut as he stared precariously over a cliff's edge, his plummet in inevitable.

"You've made an irreparable mistake," Hawke said quietly, his voice caught in disbelief.

The glow shimmered for a moment, then disappeared from Anders's visage. For a moment at least, the friend stood before Hawke and though it helped to ease him ever so slightly, disgust and fear still plagued the Champion.

"Everything will be alright," Anders assured, "but those responsible for this deed shall not be betrayed by my words."

"You're protecting them..."

"As any good man should."

Hawke scooped up the sword in his hand and stepped closer to Anders, placing the hilt so close that it nearly butted the mage in the face. "This belonged to a _boy_ Anders. A boy." He then turned and threw the weapon, chipping the platinum hilt as it clattered against the floor. "I don't want to hear your excuses. But we have to fix this before it swallows you up."

Anders shook his head slowly. "There is nothing to fix. All shall unfold as it should and at least now mages cowering in fear know that they can stand up to their oppressors."

Hawke jerked his head back to look at Anders once more. "Is that what this is about? Are you trying to spark some little revolution? Do you think the mages are going to spill out in the streets and rally because you and your friends mugged Soft Hands?"

The mage shook his head. "There is more to this than you realize." He heaved his shoulders, the feathers on his jacket swaying as he did so. "If you wish to turn me in to Meredith then I can think of no one I would rather be my jailer."

The energy was sapped from Hawke as he clammered for a seat, finding another chair and collapsing the weight of his armor into it. "I don't know what we're going to do, Anders."

"Trust in me," Anders said, "my hands are clean of Ser Josain's blood. That does not mean that I am not overjoyed at those who did it."

"Are they here? Are they mages?" Anders did not answer, clenching his jaw. "What did you tell Horacious?"

"The same thing I told you. Perhaps a little less."

"I don't know, Anders," Hawke said sadly, "I just don't know anymore."


	14. Chapter 13 - A Gaggle of Dwarves

Varric Tethras unhoisted the repeating crossbow he named Bianca and handed it over to the guard, who bowed his head graciously at the peaceful manner of the exchange.

"Treat her well, lad, or I'll know the reason why," Varric mused, eyeing the crossbow as the guard redoubled his care with the weapon. Varric grinned lightly and looked to the ceiling in the manner of the chanters, contemplating for a moment how he had miraculously found the one situation in which he would let another Dwarf put their stubby fingers all over Bianca.

It pained him to watch the girl go, to feel the weight hoist off of his back, not into his arms, and to know that she would not be within his reach, but it would take no master of culture to realize that a meeting between Dwarves about money surrounded by wine would be better done without weapons. Even with tempers flaring it was going to be a dull affair, which was why Varric had so diligently avoided meetings with the other lords of the merchant guilds, having missed nearly every summons since his brother had perished, but times were different now. Kirkwall was reeling and even if it was not obvious at a casual glance every calculation in Varric's logs pointed out that their current path was unsustainable.

The death of Viscount Dumar came with its obvious bumps, the man's habits had, for better or worse, made sure that the city had a routine it could operate upon, smoothing the economic process. But his protracted absence was making things hard, debts were piling up, goods were sitting on the docks, and Varric knew that if the matter was not addressed the Dwarven Merchant's Guild would have a regrettable reason to never convene again.

The merchants enjoyed to play at being rogues and thieves, meeting in a lowlit chamber of simple torches, summoning images of Orzrammar in the rough stone walls. Each of the eleven others seated around the long, concave table led relatively boring lives, arguing over apples, dates, and hemp, dreaming that they were overlords of the Carta. As a Dwarf with actual dealings with the Carta it was like watching clowns playing at soldiers.

Varric slid into his empty seat, propping himself against the table and wasting no time in devouring the wine that had been waiting for him. It was a Ferelden sweet, the Dwarves would have said it tasted of dog hair, but when the biases were removed it was a pleasant enough beverage. Varric was certain he tasted the sea more than the dog.

"It is perhaps no surprise that Lord Tethras is late," one of the Dwarves with a tricorn spun yellow beard mocked, slapping his hand across the table. Varric recognized him as Uthras, a wine merchant that ventured between Starkhaven and Kirkwall. He looked about the room, seemingly surprised that no one else found his joke particularly funny.

Varric took another sip of the wine. "It should be more of a surprise that I'm here at all," he mused, swirling the cup. "A Ferelden vintage? I'm assuming Uthras is the host, he'd never break out any of his fine Nevarran for the likes of us."

Uthras's look shot daggers across the table and Varric smirked into his cup.

"Uthras's frugalities are not why we have been called here," Hestor said, stroking his green dyed beard. Hestor was sometimes called the Envious when he wasn't present. It was obvious he longed to return to Orzrammar, but his weakness for whores was a reputation that was difficult to escape. "The guild is dying."

"Is it?" Varric scoffed. "I couldn't tell from the size of your bellies."

Hestor leaned forward over the table. "I'm sure a glance at your ledger would indicate well enough that our situation is becoming dire. You are paying ten bits on the crown for every date, are you not?"

Varric nodded. "I'd agree. I do long for the days when I could get them at two bits on the crown, but that's life, is it not?"

"What we need is a desperate infusion of cash," Uthras agreed. "Our monopolies on key industries are in decline. This economic collapse will not last forever, but when it has passed who will be on top?"

Varric opted to remain silent, finding more interest in the goblet of wine in front of him. He gestured for a passing servant to refill his cup. The other lords soon forgot about him and began to conspire amongst themselves.

The loudest was Balric, the only other beardless Dwarf on the council. His initial fortune had been made in dubious labor practices that had bordered slavery, but Varric was torn given the Dwarf's diligent philanthropy once success had been achieved. Now he primarily traded in livestock, so at least he had chosen beasts instead of men to trade.

"Many of the commodity brokers in and around the city are suffering," Balric bellowed, "our pockets are no longer filled with coins, but debt notes to other lords. If not for the grace of Lord Hestor I also would have sunk ages ago. But when a new Viscount is declared what am I supposed to do? It shall be years before I can pay off Lord Hestor. What am I supposed to do?"

Despite the arguments between the lords, none of them seemed to come to any conclusions, struggling to sputter retorts for the sake of pride rather than solutions. Varric rolled his eyes and swallowed the remainder of his wine before clearing his throat and speaking up.

"I have an idea," Varric finally said, though he was forced to repeat himself before he gained any traction.

"The younger Tethras has an idea," Uthras mocked. "Shall we all return to the Deep Roads and carve out more forgotten idols?"

The joke hit a little too close to home, making many of the Dwarves uncomfortable.

"I ran the numbers and we can rig the lottery," Varric explained, placing the goblet down and retrieving a piece of paper from his satchel. "You can pass this amongst yourselves if you like but the formula's all there. We're restricted, individually, in how many tickets we can buy, but there are loopholes in the law. We can each buy our share, your servants can buy their share, and playing the numbers we guarantee that we win."

The table was silent, most of the Dwarves not even looking at the paper that Varric had passed between them, causing him to frown. When it finally came to Hestor he allowed it a simple stare before simply tossing the sheet aside.

"We are not investing our money in the lottery," Hestor huffed dismissively.

"Do you speak for all the lords here?" Varric pressed, fidgeting uneasily in his chair.

Hestor nodded slowly. "I assure you, we are not investing our money in the lottery."

"I can't do this myself..." Varric insisted, but Hestor waved a hand.

"We already have plans for the lottery."

Varric narrowed his eyes dangerously, exchanging glances with each of the other lords in succession. "What are we doing with the lottery?"

"If you had not been so lazy with the summons you might already know," Balric scoffed, his voice dripping with venom. "But we are a forgiving lot and you will still receive a...modest piece of the pie."

The air went out of the room and Varric could feel the hairs on his arms standing on end. "What are we discussing here? I thought we needed to raise funds..."

"We are going to figure out how to dispense of the funds that we are soon to acquire," Hestor explained slowly, his tone as though he were speaking to a child, the words getting under Varric's skin. Hestor plucked up Varric's proposed formula for rigging the lottery. "Do you have an objection to this?"

"I'd have less of one if you told me what was going on," Varric said angrily.

Hestor simply shrugged. "You talk too much for that."


	15. Chapter 14 - Like So Many Pigs

The Hanged Man was nearly empty, just the way Fenris preferred it. Before departing Varric had explained that he would be away for several days on business, though the look in his eye indicated that the Dwarf held no particular fondness for his destination. Isabela too had disappeared, insisting that she had some sort of work ahead of her, promising Fenris that she would make good on her promise when the time was right. Though he had not doubted her sincerity at that moment time was a fickle mistress and had a way of unwrapping the stoutest of vows. It also allowed thoughts and doubts to enter Isabela's mind and despite the hope he'd had for her he was more certain with each passing day that she was going to return with an arm full of excuses.

He tried not to think about it as he helped himself to a tankard of ale in an attempt to wash the fetid taste of chicken from his mouth. The bartender had sworn it was fresh, though Fenris was certain that their definitions of the word differed. It had tasted slimy and reeked like fish, but he was hungry enough to brave the meal, so long as the overpowering taste of the ale could wash it down.

The whore at the far end of the room had tried on more than one occasion to offer Fenris her services, and though he had been tempted the lustful way in which her eyes were drawn to his coin purse had nearly been as off putting as her swear that she was hardly bothered he was an Elf.

"How charming," Fenris had said under his breath, waving a dismissive hand at her and insisting her disappearance.

Now she remained mostly silent, only occasionally sparing him a glance, though it was mostly wrought of boredom. If he had intended to stay any longer at the Hanged Man he supposed he would need to learn her name, perhaps even striking conversation once in a while. For now he was content with her silence.

He poked at the chicken on the plate in front of him. It was half finished and he had half a mind to leave it that way. The chef had tried to mask the goo it was covered in with tactically assigned pieces of lettuce, though those too were covered covered in odd spots, like trying to hide a crime in a blanket full of holes.

"Has the food always been this rancid?" Fenris asked the barkeep as he passed.

The man looked down beneath his whiskers, then frowned. "Er, no serrah," he confessed, "sadly the uh merchants guild has been sellin' us are...well it is what it is if you get my meaning."

"I do," Fenris said, though he was certain he was simply hearing more of Isabela's excuses from a different mouth.

The door to the Hanged Man opened, letting the unwelcome rays of the sun inside. Fenris had no interest in who was entering until the barkeep whistled a sound that sounded something like a bird's chirp. The Elf slowly snaked his neck about to see the men entering the tavern. They were a spray of colors, covered head to toe in cloth and ring mail. The tallest among them wore an expensive looking purple. They were covered in an assortment of weapons, though they seemed to favor two curved blades on their back and small morningstars in their hands, that they patted with a sadistic eagerness.

The barkeep leaned forward and whispered, "That's who's been askin'." Fenris's back stiffened and he swung his body around to meet them. He could not get a look at their faces as the fine garments that they wore also extended to their mouths with a matching hood to cover all but their eyes.

"So you're the Elf," the man in purple said, jabbing his small mace in the direction of Fenris. "Up then, let's not make this hard."

"I'll not have blood here!" the barkeep roared, gesturing toward the whore across the room. "If you've a quarrel take it outside, eh?"

The man in purple pointed a finger at the barkeep. "Keep it quiet," he hissed, "there'll be no blood long as the Elf knows his place."

Fenris rose from the bar and rested the weight of his body on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce.

"You should listen to him," Fenris warned, a crackling white mist spinning about his body as he felt a burn across the Lyrium tattoos on his chest, "this won't end well for you boy."

"Oy," the man in purple said dismissively, as though he had not heard Fenris's threat, "where's your pirate bitch?"

Fenris did not bother waiting for an invitation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the whore move, catching the looks of the hunters dressed the part of a rainbow. In a single swift movement he threw himself at them, snatching a wrist and snapping it before even realizing that it belonged to the green colored man. He let out a howl of agony and Fenris used the chance to pluck the mace from his hand, twisting his weight and bringing it to bear on the man covered in blue nearest to him. The weapon came down with a sickening crunch, sending teeth and blood forward with such force that Fenris doubted that he would rise again.

The remaining bodies threw themselves at Fenris, who lost himself in his attempts to dodge a flurry of maces that were all destined for his body. He shifted his feet, hoisted his weight so that they hit nothing but air, then lurched forward and caught the man in purple, throwing him to the ground under Fenris's lithe form.

"Wait!" the man in purple shrieked, but Fenris was beyond that point and brought his mace down with such force that the man's face was flattened into the back of his skull. Fueled by rage he cracked him several more times, relishing in the sound of broken bone and flesh until the purple dressed assailant was little more than a lump of meat, no longer fighting or bothering to resist the Elf's attack.

The remaining two men leaped forward and tackled Fenris, one gripping him beneath the arms in a desperate attempt to restrain him, the other grappling with his legs. At first Fenris kicked and struggled, though the strength of two, heavier men became too much.

"Andraste he's a wily one," the blue dressed man that held his arms yelled. "Hold him, hold him!"

Fenris growled as the Lyrium that marked his chest began to glow, lighting a fire across his skin. Suddenly, however, before he was forced to tap into the tattoos further he felt the strain release on his chest. He looked up to see the man in blue falling to the side, howling as he held his now bloodied head. The barkeep stood above both of them, holding what was once a wine battle now shattered at the stem.

"I said no bloodying my damn tavern," the barkeep yelled as he kicked at the remaining assailant.

Fenris reached forward and punched the man who had been struck, then grabbed for whatever loose piece of cloth he could on the remaining attacker still grappling with his legs. The attacker would not let go however, rather than trying to restrain Fenris at this point, he was simply holding on for dear life with the remainder of his companions gone. The Elf continued to punch and claw until he finally let go, and Fenris then leaped to his feet.

The barkeep was panting, perhaps unaccustomed to such exertion. Fenris gave the remaining man, garbed in half white half green, a solid kick to the ribs, finding satisfaction as he felt as well as heard a painful snap in his chest.

"Wanting a sovereign for my hide are you?" Fenris hissed, though he found a hint of enjoyment as the barkeep reached down and stabbed the man with the broken tip of his bottle.

"Take it somewhere else will you?" the barkeep roared, having found his battle sense. All four assailants were now either writhing or finding their bodies run cool, facing whatever spirit had made them. Fenris growled under his breath, letting the adrenaline subside with a long sigh.

No words passed between him and the barkeep, the other man instead helping himself behind the bar and uncorking a bottle of liquor, downing an impressive amount. Fenris could not pull himself away, watching with a certain glee as the slavers who survived agonized in their wounded state.

Not long after the brawl had ended the door swung open again and Fenris could not deny his own surprise to see that not only had the whore fetched the city guard, but Aveline herself was present. Her eyes dashed over the fallen bodies and she shook her head, not bothering to announce her intent.

"They meant to take me," Fenris explained through a sneer.

"I know these men," Aveline explained, drawing a sudden snap of a stare from Fenris.

"Know them?" he pressed. "They meant to put me in chains."

"I know," Aveline explained, leaning down to examine the man in purple. "They're a pressgang. They've been harassing the docks for weeks."

"A what?" Fenris spat, shaking his head.

Aveline rose to her full height. "A pressgang. They're freelancers, but everytime I get close to them they disappear onto whatever ship hired them. They've been kidnapping anyone they think has any talent at sea and shackling them to the oars."

"No," Fenris said angrily, "no that can't be. They're slavers."

Aveline shook her own head at that. "There's not much of a difference, but they're a small lot. They look for sailors. Nothing more."

"Then why..." Fenris's head started to spin as he stepped away, his hands clutching for a chair. When he found one he fell into it. "Someone must have hired them."

"That they must have," Aveline said as she gestured for her guards to start the process of hoisting them out of the Hanged Man. "The Minister of Ships won't like this one bit. I'm going to halt every ship in port and drag their damn captains in for questioning."

"What about the Tevinter?" Fenris asked, confusion crippling his voice. "He's..."

Aveline looked at him, furrowing her brow. "Who?"

"Horacious his name was."

Aveline sighed. "I...will ask him but..." her voice trailed off and Fenris growled.

"There has to be more to this than wanting to tie me to a galley."

Aveline raised her palms defensively. "I will make the necessary inquiries," she insisted as her guards began to sling the bodies over their shoulders, "I'll talk to this Horacious myself if you like."

Fenris growled. "Maybe I'll talk to him myself." Aveline's glower was not enough to deter him, instead he simply found himself enjoying the sight of the slain being wheeled away like so many slaughtered pigs.


	16. Chapter 15 - Mourning

Isabela watched each of her steps, foot over foot, toe to heel, counting each one as she walked through Lowtown, tracing her steps to the Elven Alienage. Somewhere between the second hundredth step she stopped and planted her feet firmly and shook her head with a simple grin.

"She's such a lying little shit," she said to herself, thinking back to Merrill's observation that she had always taken the same number of steps to the young Elf's home on every journey. Isabela had let herself get wrapped up in the counting game twice now and finally just accepted that the girl was aiming for conversation, while sheepishly injecting a peculiar compliment as she so often did.

There was something enviable about Merrill's inability to filter her innocence and a large part of Isabela wondered how it had remained intact so long. There was a sheepish smile that the Elf would wear that speckled in her eyes when she listened to nearly any story, as though she were more enthralled by the fact that someone was telling it than its actual contents. It was heartwarming and it made the telling of stories all that much easier for the pirate turned land walker.

The Alienage had been quiet of late, even more quiet than usual. When the Arishok had finally decided that the only answer to the decadence of Kirkwall was its forceful annihilation desperation and the allure of equality, of purpose, had driven many Elves to throw their lot behind the Qunari. Most had simply locked their doors, barricaded it with what they could, and hoped to wait out the catastrophe, but the judging eyes of Kirkwall carried a long memory of those that did join in the Arishok's rampage, as well as their families, friends, or anyone that seemed to share similar physical features.

Isabela had been all too familiar with the prejudices and panics of a society on edge and had gone out of her way to show Merrill a few tricks to protect herself in the dark. With the justification of the Arishok old prejudices and dark desires suddenly seemed all that more inviting and a pig sticker through the heart insured that Isabela would not have to avenge the Elf later.

Things had finally seemed to return to normal a year on, if slowly and with an air of caution. Isabela had yet to spy on of their festivals, usually marked by men and women dancing in the street to the smell of fresh flowers and recently pressed juices that could pass as wine. It was a splendid little spot of happiness in an otherwise dreary existence and on more than one occasion Isabel had found herself propped up against some post or under some tent, content to watch the swaying of lithe bodies and the looks of true bliss.

But now barely a maiden would be spotted hanging clothes out to dry, skittishly poking a head out to insure the coast was clear before tending to whatever chores brought them out of their homes. It reminded Isabela of rats fleeting into every container and parapet they could find, almost always heralding a storm on the horizon.

In the center of the Alienage a tent of logs created a spire that housed a small blue flame inside, sending a warm chill through Isabela's bones as she passed it, drawing a laugh at the paradox. Dozens of red petals surrounded a large, bent flower, stripped to its sepal as it looked downward toward the flame. It was a curious gesture and having never seen it before she wondered what it might mean.

Putting thoughts of the shrine out of her head, Isabela rapped her knuckles against the discreet door of Merrill's home, once then twice in rapid succession as she always did. The door opened only a moment later, Merrill's eyes wide and welcoming when she recognized the guest.

"Isabela!" she called out as though it had been ages since she'd seen the pirate. "Come in, come in!" Isabela smiled. "Quickly, please." The urgency caught Isabela off guard but she complied, watching curiously as Merrill hastily shut the door behind her. The younger Elf's look was at first guarded, reserved, but once the door had been shut and locked that innocently sweet smile returned. "Thank you."

"Is something the matter, kitten?" Isabela asked, her eyes scanning the room cautiously. Her palms began to itch for her daggers.

Merrill shook her head insistently as she crossed the room to a small table with a pitcher of water, quickly pouring two glasses full. "No," she insisted, still shaking her head, "nothing much I mean. Just...it's not good to be out right now?"

That did little to placate Isabela's anxiety or fears. "Why?"

"Just..." Merrill struggled for words, swallowing a gulp of the water she had poured for herself, "it's not a good time right now. We're in mourning."

"Mourning? For who?"

The Elf placed her water back down, then offered the other to Isabela who took it for courtesy's sake, but did not taste it. Merrill sighed.

"I don't know," she admitted, taking another sip.

"How do you _not_ know who you're mourning?"

"When I came home the other day the Alienage was mourning," Merrill explained, her voice suddenly like that of a child who had been caught stealing, "they wouldn't tell me who for. Just that someone had been murdered."

"That's...oddly unhelpfully specific," Isabela groaned, glancing down at her glass of water.

Merrill sighed and flopped down onto her dusty sofa, resting her hands in her lap. "I know. I'm sorry. But I can tell you where they're buried. Maybe that will help?"

Isabela cocked an eyebrow. "How would you know that?"

"After we planted the mourning flower we all went to place an item on their grave. It's near Sundermount. I put one of my lottery tickets. I hope it's not the winning one. Did you know they won't sell any more?"

It was too much information for Isabela to digest at once. She swallowed the water that Merrill had given to her as though it were some sort of stout ale or liquor, the gesture alone allowing her to try to sort out her thoughts. "Wait," Isabela said suddenly, "to you? Have you bought too many?"

"No," Merrill admitted, looking back up, "I went to go buy another. They said the lottery is put on hold indefinitely and they won't sell anymore tickets."

"What a scam," Isabela hissed, thinking of her own ticket back home at the Hanged Man. "Right bunch of devils they are."

"I hope it's not cancelled. Do you think it has something to do with the person that was murdered?"

Isabela frowned at the thought. "What are you all hiding from?" she pressed again. Merrill shrugged.

"Everyone just said 'they'd' come soon and started hiding. I figured I should be careful too."

"Tell me about this grave, Kitten," Isabela said as she slid onto the sofa next to Merrill. "Where do I find it? What'd you do when you were there? Be precise."

Merrill sighed. "Okay," she started.


	17. Chapter 16 - The Dog of Danarius

The air was beginning to constrict around the city for Hawke, feeling as though a noose was being tightened around Kirkwall's neck. His head was spinning by the time he'd climbed the dredges of Darktown and saw the first rays of sunlight again and each step felt heavier. Although the denizens of the city went about their merry way it still felt as though every eye were upon him, scrutinizing him, trying to dig Anders's secret from his mind.

To add to it all every shadow in every alley seemed to play for him Ser Josain's end. He could see, smell, feel the hapless young Templar in the last moments of his life, an impossible number of scenarios flashing before his eyes, haunting his every step. All at once a need for knowledge washed over Hawke. As he gritted his teeth angrily in an attempt to make sense of the cryptic Anders and to drive out the shadows of the fallen the Templar he resolved that he needed to know more about the man called Soft Hands.

There had been something distant about Anders's gaze as he had relayed his story, a thousand yard stare that pierced through Hawke until the whip of Justice cracked against the mage's back. His voice boomed with certainty but his eyes bore that discreet plea of doubt, the double meanings that had become increasingly common since the Qunari's defeat a year ago.

As Hawke began to climb the unkempt stone steps out of Lowtown he spied a gaggle of three men, a number of crates discarded between them. He supposed they were probably dock workers or haulers of some sort, stealing away a break on their employer's wage so long as he was out of sight.

"So a Templar, a mage, and a uh, a uh," one of them spoke, a gangly man with a crooked nose, to the disgust of his friend wearing a bandana.

"A chanter works good," the bandana wearer said.

"Right, so they walk into a bar see? And they uh...they uh..."

The man in the bandana rolled his eyes, though the third, bald man seemed enthralled by the story.

"And they all got so shitfaced drunk they drowned crossing the bridge to the Gallows," the bandana wearer finally said angrily. The bald one looked at him wide eyed, with a look as though he'd been slapped.

"Why'd you go and spoil it?"

"That's not how it goes!" the first howled in protest.

The man in the bandana shrugged. "Least we got somewhere, with your clucking we'd have been here all day." He reached down and hoisted one of the crates over his shoulder. "Let's get these to the _Nautilus_," he bade of the other two, "better than sitting around listening to you slobber all over jokes."

Hawke watched the trio curiously as they muttered beneath their breath and followed the bandana wearer's lead. The man with the crooked nose turned a glower on Hawke when he noticed he'd been staring.

"What?" crooked nose hissed. "You wants a fight?"

"Shut up Lockney," bandana said, pushing past him, nodding to Hawke. "Champion," he acknowledged.

Courteously, Hawke nodded back. "No harm," he acknowledged, watching the three clamor off. It was an odd thing for him to consider, with employment as difficult to come by as it was in Kirkwall a paid man still took no moment to consider or appreciate his fortune as soon as he was out of his master's eye.

Hawke shrugged and put the incident out of mind, perhaps more surprised by one dock worker's willingness to so brazenly challenge a man fully suited in armor on the streets of Lowtown, Champion or no. The thought began to unnerve Hawke. What did Crooked Nose know? How many soft handed, armored warriors had he recently seen slain by those in simple cloth and felt robes near Mummer's Street? It was unsettling.

The journey back to his mansion was a long and uneventful one once the dock workers had trudged away, a bevvy of swears and curses on their lips. Even the merchants strangely silent, occasionally gesturing to their wares but seemingly self conscious about the emptiness of many of their carts. They looked thinner, too. Nothing like the scarecrows and skeletons that prowled through Darktown or even Lowtown, but each merchant was visibly tightening their belts another notch, their clothes looking like a ragged set of hanging skin rather than the close fitting, fitted attire he had been used to. Hawke quietly wondered how long it would take for Kirkwall to see merchants turn to beggars, and Maker knew what the denizens of the lower city would turn to. Without a doubt abominations would be the least of their worries when the desperate feared their hunger more than a dozen knights in armor.

When Hawke entered his estate he was immediately set aback at the sight of Fenris, who was pacing across the antechamber like a caged animal. Bodahn was at his side and Hawke had wondered how many refreshments the Elf had turned down as he carved a crease into the marble floor. When the door opened Fenris's eyes immediately snapped onto the Champion but there was no mirth or joy there, only a serious scowl that softened at the sight of his friend.

"Hawke," Fenris said without introduction, "we need to talk."

"He's been here some three hours now, messere," Bodahn explained, "said speakin' with you was urgent."

Fenris nodded, confirming the story. Hawke gestured toward his servant. "Can I have a few moments alone with him?"

"As you wish, messere," Bodahn agreed cordially, offering a quick bow before snapping at his son, Sandal. The younger, beardless Dwarf followed the sound with his head, then grunted something that Hawke did not hear before following his father into a side room.

Hawke looked back at Fenris. "What's wrong?"

Without wasting a moment Fenris removed a long, blunted weapon from under his shirt, a wicked looking morningstar. The decidedly pleasant name was at odds with the grim purpose of a ball covered in spikes atop a slim rod. "The men the barkeep told you about meant to have me." In disgust Fenris threw the weapon across the floor and for a moment Hawke could hear Bodahn gasp had he seen the chip it no doubt caused in the floor. "A slaver's weapon."

"You don't think Horacious-," Hawke started, but Fenris had been pushed too far beyond anger to argue.

"Who else?" he seethed.

"I spoke to the man, he was looking for Anders," Hawke insisted, leaning down to scoop up the weapon and examine it more carefully. There was nothing particularly fine or extraordinary about the weapon, made of rudimentary black iron and thrown about a piece of ashwood for a stem.

"A cover," Feris continued, his face contorted in rage. "He's looking for me and while he had you distracted chasing the mage his dogs hunted me down where I slept."

It didn't seem right to Hawke, was not adding up to him. There could have been truth to Fenris's words, he conceded quietly, but the knowledge the fat man seemed to have about Anders made it impossible to fully stand behind Fenris's accusations.

"I'll talk to him," Hawke offered, but Fenris would hear nothing of it, snatching the weapon from Hawke's hand and tucking it back into his belt.

"_We'll_ talk to him," he insisted, "I want to hear his lying tongue with my own ears."

Hawke narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" he asked.

"It's a better idea than waiting for him to find new, stronger blood to take me." Fenris was unyielding. "Aveline said they were a pressgang. A perfect way to mask their intention to slip a resident back to Tevinter."

"Slow down a minute," Hawke pleaded, gesturing for Fenris to sit on one of the many chairs and sofas of the antechamber. Fenris still would not budge, if anything grinding his heels and solidifying where he stood. "Maybe it was just a pressgang, you _have_ been around Isabela a lot lately. Maybe they mistook you for a sailor."

Fenris shook his head vigorously. "Coincidences are what blind men call clues." Only then did Fenris seem to realize that he was trembling. He took in a deep breath, the energy suddenly sapped from him as his adrenaline returned to normal levels. He stumbled a bit and threw himself onto one of the offered seats. "I am sorry Hawke," he said, "this just-,"

"I know, Fenris," Hawke offered, pulling a chair aside to sit next to him. "If you want to meet him for yourself..."

"It's risky, I know," Fenris conceded, "but I won't live in doubt. And if he really is just the next pest after Hadriana I have no intention of letting him walk the streets of Kirkwall much longer."

"Well," Hawke started, glad to see the Elf finally beginning to calm down, "we can't just go barging in there. Even if we overcame that bodyguard of his we'd have Aveline beating down our necks in no time for assaulting a guest of the city."

Fenris nodded slowly, his eyes suddenly looking more content with witnessing Hawke come on board. "I agree," he said, clearly already formulating a plan. "He can't know it's me right away. I'll have to wear some sort of disguise."

Hawke raised a golden eyebrow. "You? A disguise? You never struck me as the subtle type."

Fenris shrugged. "The subterfuse does not have to last long. I just need to cover my..." the words hung in his mouth like hot coals, "markings until we've determined who, and what, he is. Then, if necessary, he will die."

"I want your word," Hawke pressed, "that if this Tevinter isn't after you you will walk away."

Fenris glowered, gritting his teeth.

"Fenris," Hawke insisted, "if he's not here for you he's a part of something bigger. We are not hunting a Tevinter mage, we are making sure you're safe."

Though it seemed a terrible strain, Fenris's shoulders slumped and he nodded his concession. "You have my word, Hawke," he said, his tone sincere as it was heavy.

"Good." Hawke rose to his feet and called out to Bodahn. When the Dwarf arrived with another gracious, well practiced bow, Hawke said, "We're going out. I need you to fetch Fenris one of my cloaks, one of the big, winter ones preferably. And maybe a jacket."

"But it's the summer, messere," Bodahn explained quizzically, his face a splay of confusion, "he'll be all a swelter goin' out like that."

"Just do it," Hawke insisted, the gravity of his tone spiting any further arguments before they could manifest.

"As you wish, messere," Bodahn agreed, spinning on his heels and departing to accomplish the task.

The disguise was a strange, but fitting one. At a glance Fenris was passable for any human of Kirkwall, buried under heaps of garments, suedes and the enormous fur cloak that Hawke had requested. He looked several sizes bigger than Hawke knew him to be.

"How do I look?" Fenris asked when it had completed.

Bodahn cleared his throat. "Like you're hiding something, if you don't mind my sayin'," he offered. Hawke was forced to agree.

"Very well," Fenris conceded, "I am."

"This probably isn't going to work," Hawke lamented as he sized his friend up. "You're coming as my valet. Just...I know it's a horrible thing to ask of you, but just pretend to be my servant."

Fenris scoffed. "I think I know how to play the part."

There was a dizzying irony, Hawke realized, in that Fenris was posing as a servant to prevent himself from returning to the service of Danarius, but he thought better of bringing the topic to words. "Well," Hawke said at length, "let's...see what we can do then."

At Hawke's insistence Fenris had left behind all his weapons save for the small morningstar that he had intended to use as some sort of evidence. How it would matter to Horacious was anyone's guess, but Fenris had conceded enough to be pressed on the matter. As they departed the sun had begun to dip and the merchants were already closing down their shop, abandoning the streets earlier and earlier with each night.

The few that remained copped a curious eye at the passing duo, though Fenris begrudgingly kept his eyes on the ground, watching his own footfalls, stepping in line with Hawke. As they walked the Champion realized how little practice the Elf actually had as a true valet. Though the distinction between servant and slave could sometimes be a slim one in the higher courts of Thedas the valet was his master's equal to all those about him. He could hold his head high and proud, knowing that any offense given the servant was equally given to Hawke. Indeed, some of the most arrogant men that Hawke had encountered since his assent to the upper circles of society had been servants too comfortable in their master's protection.

When they reached the oak doors of Horacious's mansion Fenris took a moment to eye the heraldry.

"The black stallion," Fenris observed as he sized up one of the enormous banners.

"Are you familiar with the sigil?" Hawke asked, genuinely curious.

Fenris nodded slowly. "It's...an affiliation. Like an alliance. They're a congregation of magisters and their supporters called the _Equs_. I'm not familiar with the colors, but he's simply proudly announcing his affiliation with that branch."

"Is there anything I should know about the _Equs_ before we go charging in?"

"They're middle tier in wealth," Fenris explained, taking his eyes off the banner and looking directly at Hawke. Most of the Elf's features were hidden under the garb he was wearing, which at the very least helped add to the disguise. "Horse riders were highly valued in early Tevinter days. Once most of the world had been conquered those horse riders dug in like ticks in Imperial politics. They're powerful enough to distress the lower magisters, but not enough to threaten the Senate."

"Wild cards, then," Hawke observed.

"Close enough to be so. They're like a third party. Very powerful, very dangerous, and very coveted in politics."

Hawke groaned to himself, for a moment secretly wishing that if he was forced to bring a run away slave to a Tevinter's doorstep that it could have belonged to a more obscure circle. Content with the briefing, he knocked the gargoyle shaped brass idol again and was once more received by the shaven slave with the loose garments.

"My lord, Hawke," the man said when he recognized the Champion, "His Esteemed has informed me that you are a welcome guest at any time." The slave's eyes fell on Fenris. "And who, may I inquire, is this?"

"My valet," Hawke explained, hoping that the slave was no observant enough to spot the lie.

"Most excellent," the other man said after a pause. He stepped aside, inviting Hawke in once more. As he and Fenris stepped inside, the man continued. "This is a most unexpected privilege, I am afraid dinner will not be ready for some hours."

A surprise the man ever stops eating, Hawke thought to himself, but he thought better of saying as much.

"I have business I need to discuss with your master." The slave shut the door behind Fenris. "It's urgent and I don't always trust the sanctity of letters."

The slave seemed uninterested as he turned and paraded the two to the antechamber of the estate. They continued up a small flight of stairs that Hawke amused himself by picturing Horacious attempting to climb like the Sundermount. Horacious was in the mansion's study, his fleshy face buried in a tome. As always, Titus stood behind him, solemn as ever.

"My lord, the most esteemed Horacious," the slave said with a long bow that nearly brought his forehead to the floor. "Might I present my lord Tiber Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. He bids an urgent meeting with you."

Horacious snapped up from his book, then clasped it together with a loud smack that sent dust into the air. His eyes lit up like rubies at the sight of Hawke. "Just so!" he called out excitedly, discarding the book and clapping his hands together. His eyes immediately fell upon Fenris then. "And whom might I have the pleasure of also inviting into my home?"

Hawke started to speak, but the bald slave cut him off. "This is the Champion's valet, a servant not fit to be named."

Hawke could feel Fenris's hot breath and quiet growl, no matter how the Elf struggled to hide it.

"Indeed," Horacious said curiously. "Thank you Cicero. Go, fetch us some wine, something sweet, I pray you, and some rolls in case our guests hunger."

More likely that Horacious hungered, Hawke thought to himself. The study was as large as any Hawke had seen in Kirkwall, with more books and scrolls than he had ever seen in one particular place. Horacious's plush, padded chair of red velvet was in front of a long, plain table with maps covering every inch of it. The entire ink and paper smelling room seemed like a place of knowledge and the mute Titus seemed out of place simply standing in it.

"Please, have a seat," Horacious insisted, readjusting himself in his chair and folding his hands, resting them atop the mound that was his belly. Hawke complied first, finding a chair that looked equally comfortable as Horacious's, though Fenris insisted on standing over his shoulder, locking eyes with Titus. "What is this urgent business we must discuss, hm?"

Hawke chose his words carefully before speaking. "What do you know about the pressgangs that operate in Kirkwall?"

If he had stricken close to the truth Horacious's expression did not betray him. "Terrible, fiendish lot," he explained, "unfortunately all too common in every port, yes? Clubs and mallets to knock a man's wits like water from a jar." He made a slight squishing sound with his mouth while popping one hand against a clenched fist to accentuate the point. "Then off, no sign of them again. Very tragic."

"Curious that a man who owns slaves finds such tragedy in impressment," Hawke mused, half to Fenris.

Horacious grinned at the irony. "Just so," he said with a nod of his head. "But look around you, yes? My slaves, they want for nothing. Is a terrible fate, I think, to awaken to a scrap of bread, wrists chained to an oar, choosing between the whip and drowning, terrible fate."

Hawke leaned in. "I'd imagine some masters treat their slaves better than others."

"This is so," Horacious agreed with a nod. "But not so unique, I think." The conversation was growing dangerous, Hawke knew. The longer Horacious continued to justify his own part in slavery the harder it would be to restrain Fenris. Horacious continued. "I love each of my slaves. They are my children. I am obligated to them, they are obligated to me. It is...sacred bond, yes? They need ask for nothing, I must provide because I know, I understand. No different than children, I think. What duty does a child have but to obey? And sadly, like slaves, so many children are swept into the arms of those that do not understand this. No child chooses their father, no slave chooses his master. This is so."

Fenris finally sneered audibly, but quickly tried to hide it under a cough. Hawke winced, then realized that all eyes in the room were suddenly upon the heavily cloaked valet.

"Is curious," Horacious mused, "that at dinner you come alone and on urgent business about pressgangs you bring your valet. Even more curious that you must pull your own seat and he has not offered to take your cloak."

Hawke winced again. "I'm not entirely adapted to this high life yet, I suppose," he said as the bald headed slave returned with a golden plate upon which sat a pitcher of wine and several pewter goblets. He knelt down and placed it on the table with the maps, then poured two cups. Fenris leaned forward, presumably to take the one for Hawke in a foolhardy attempt to keep up appearances, but he was stopped suddenly when in a flash that seemed too quick for such an enormous man with such a large blade Titus had his weapon out, leveled at Fenris. The wine bearing slave froze, then took simple step back to be as far as courtesy allowed from Titus and his prey.

"Perhaps," Horacious said, patting Fenris on the hand, "we should end this pretense, yes? Who have you brought into my home? Is a very rude thing to accept my hospitality and keep spies hidden under coats too heavy for summer, yes?"

Fenris exchanged a cold, worried glance with Hawke. Feeling caught, all the part of a fish out of water, Hawke nodded slowly. Fenris growled under his breath and let go of the cup, then reached back and undid the heavy winter cloak he was wearing. Undoing the straps that clasped it to his shoulders the thick thing fell to the ground with a thud, revealing the mat of snow white hair atop Fenris's head and all the more damning, the trace of Lyrium tattoos that trailed down his chin and neck.

Hawke was not sure what he expected from Horacious, but the stunned gasp was the least of his expected responses. The fat man looked back and gestured at Titus to put away his weapon and the tattooed man complied without question.

"But to have known," Horacious said, his voice still in awe, "Danarius's dog, a companion of the Champion of Kirkwall. Truly splendid, the company you keep."

Fenris growled. "Tell me why I shouldn't tear the heart from your chest," he hissed, dripping with venom.

"There are many, I think," Horacious said with a long giggle, "most prominent, I think, that Titus would cut you in two, then I would have no heart and you would have no top! But why harm me? I wish only to admire. Do we not do this? See beauty and admire?"

"Your lies are poison in my ears, Tevinter," Fenris spat. "I know you're following in Hadriana's footsteps."

"That fool?" Horacious laughed. "Is this what happened to her?" The fat man looked back at Hawke, his face caught in half of a laugh. "Danarius had been so tight lipped. Asked and asked I did, always would he say she is away on business, she shall return. This is too delightful. I could not have orchestrated a better end for the little cunt."

"If you are not here for me," Fenris barked, "then why are you here?"

Horacious looked back at the Elf. "I have said this many times. So many times Titus could say it now, I think. I am investigating the death of Ser Josain, just so." He looked at the bald slave that had delivered the wine. "Cicero why do you not leave us, yes?" When the slave began to comply Horacious turned his gaze back on Fenris. "No longer are you a valet. Please, sit, sit, I beg you. Now you are guest. I would have it no other way."

At first Fenris was suspicious, but when he finally stepped aside and pulled up his own chair Hawke released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Horacious clapped again and continued. "I have always wanted to meet the dog of Danarius. Too much have I heard his grumbling. So many agonies you have caused him and I wish I could pay you a sovereign for every one, yes?"

"I have a name," Fenris hissed, his voice becoming more snake like than dog like with each passing breath.

"Just so. And by what name shall I call you? A guest deserves such courtesy."

Fenris seemed to struggle to make the words come out of his mouth. His lips contorted, creating the frame, but he could not bring himself to say it.

"Call him Fenris," Hawke insisted, injecting between the two.

"Fenris," Horacious agreed with a bob of his head, "just so."

"So you're no friend of Danarius then," Hawke observed, hoping to smoothen the ground that had been tarnished between the two.

"Just so," Horacious repeated with another nod, sending the skin about his throat to sway like a sail in the wind. "Danarius is a fool. He is as fool at court as he is at home. To etch Lyrium to the skin? Bold. To lose such an investment? Many a time have I laughed at his insolence. We are no friends, we will never be friends and that I could stomp him beneath my boot would be all the justice I could pray to the Maker for."

Hawke's curiosity got the best of him. "I thought you Tevinters all worshipped the old gods."

Horacious clucked his tongue distastefully. "Old gods. Dragons for the superstitious, yes? I am a loyal zealot of the Imperial Chantry. Many a day I have knelt in our good Chantry, as any good man should. Do you pray, Champion?"

"Not often."

"You should," Horacious said happily, "good for soul. Also many whispers in Chantry. Foolish, don't know why, large place, every man goes there, but they each think the secrets stay with the chanters. I will never understand this."

Hawke nodded, understanding the implication. "To the point, however," he said, shifting the topic, "Fenris was attacked by a pressgang in Lowtown. He has no nautical experience and given that we recently dealt with Hadriana, you could understand why..." he let the words trail off, believing Horacious a smart enough man to put the pieces together himself.

Horacious let out a heavy chortle, "Just so!" he agreed heartily. "But that Ser Josain had died at another time. I have certainly brought coincidence with me and as I say, coincidence is a herald for those who look! But no, in this case I have no interest in Danarius's lost pet, no no. I am far too busy with our good Templar. But if I were to seek you out, my dear Fenris, it would be but to help you against Danarius, never to return you."

The slave returned again, this time bearing rolls that he placed next to the wine. As though only just remembering that the wine was there Horacious let out an appreciative hum and swallowed the cup full, then waved for the slave to refill it. He then reached for one of the rolls and took a bite as he watched the bald man leave.

"These men who attacked you," Horacious said after swallowing a large bite, "do you know their names?"

Fenris shook his head slowly, then retrieved the weapon he'd tucked into his cloak. Horacious held out an open, plump hand and Fenris gave it to him.

"Two of them are dead," Fenris explained, "the other two are rotting in the dungeons as we speak."

"Just so," Horacious agreed as he examined the weapon. "A barbarian's thing. Crude. Black iron. These men have no passion for their craft." The words sent a shiver up Hawke's spine. "You are my guest," Horacious said suddenly, looking back at Fenris. "We shall find your would be slavers' employers. There shall be none who say Horacious does not protect his guests, yes?"

"How?" Fenris asked cautiously, tossing aside any advice against looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Horacious gestured behind him to Titus. "We shall. Do not worry you this. Hawke is my friend. His friends are my friends, yes?"

"We're friends?" Hawke mused. "This is news to me."

Horacious smiled and helped himself to another roll. "If this is all?"

Hawke looked at Fenris, who shared a glance that said that everything he needed to know. "I think that will do for now." The two rose to their feet and Horacious nodded to him as he chewed his roll.

Just as Hawke was halfway out of the study he heard Fenris clear his throat.

"If you had been my master," Fenris asked curiously, "and I had escaped you, what would you have done?"

Hawke glanced over his shoulder at the exchange, a hint of concern pulling at his expression. Horacious did not miss a beat as he swallowed his sweet roll. "Since you love running so much," he explained, helping himself to yet another, "when I found you, I would cut off your feet and see how you run like that."

The calm, certain cruelty of the statement left a chill coursing up Hawke's spine.


	18. Chapter 17 - The Whore Comes Home

Hawke had not been at the estate when Isabela had arrived, but that did not stop his Dwarf manservant from inviting her in as graciously as though he was. For a moment Isabela let herself believe that the small valet were genuinely happy to see her, but she realized all at once that it was an act that had probably fooled all of Hawke's guests and she knew that he had many these days.

"Will you be stayin' the night then, Messere?" Bodahn asked as he closed the door behind her.

"I doubt that," Isabela confessed sadly. The Dwarf reached for the satchel that she had slung over her shoulder. "That's alright," she insisted, hugging it close to her hip. Without missing a beat Bodahn bobbed his head, never losing that warm smile.

"As you wish, Messere," he responded, "just in case I'll have a fresh set of sheets waitin' for ya' and I'll make breakfast for two." Before Isabela could protest the Dwarf turned and disappeared to make good on his promise. She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the crack of a smile that formed on her lips. Lowtown may have had the character, the life that she craved, but the first time she had spent the night at Hawke's house she realized she could get used to the little perks of Hightown.

Everytime she was in the mansion sense of awe swept across Isabela. She remembered when Tiber Hawke had been another filthy Ferelden refugee, remarkable only for those intense emerald eyes, or so she thought at least. He had lived in a little shack with only the gold piece in his pocket to his name. Hard work, a little risk, and evidently nearly being swallowed by the Deep Roads had spat him out into a palatial estate that took her breath away.

The smell of tar had been replaced by citrus, the sounds of whores and bar brawls by the soft breeze of the high mountain air, but Isabela was not surprised how Hawke could call this place home. But, she thought, save for the small manservant darting between rooms in an attempt to make Isabela comfortable the place was empty. The thought made her cold despite the hot summer night air, causing her to tuck her arms under chest against the lonely chill she felt.

It seemed perhaps poetic and every instinct in her told her to just get up and run away, flee back to the Hanged Man and poison whatever silly notion had driven her to seek Hawke out with every liquor and beer that she could find. She tried to steel herself, but with each passing moment as she waited for the man to return she could feel that worried chill wrapping about her like a cold, wet blanket. Before long even her teeth were beginning to chatter.

Whenever Bodahn was forced to pass through the antechamber he would insist that Hawke should be back any moment and reminded her that he was available should she require anything. Each time she would courteously decline, reminding him that she was fine.

After an hour she began to pace, trying to pull the maelstrom of words floating through her mind into some sort of coherent thought. Just as her patience and nerve began to reach their limit she heard the door's hinges creak and the breath was sucked from her lungs. At first she looked down at the floor, but then caught herself, steeling her jaw and glancing up, refusing to back down from the mess she had made for herself. Her heart nearly leaped through her throat when she saw him, even though she had spied the man a thousand times before. For the first time in a year she was here for him, to see _him_, and it was almost too much to bear. Hawke was dressed in black and red suede, with silver patterns looking like Merrill's tattoos tracing up and down the body, a smart looking vest under his coat and his hair cropped back in a single braid. He did not notice her at first, but when he shut the front door and looked down the antechamber he froze as soon as he saw her.

For a moment the two locked stares and Isabela instantly felt her poise beginning to fade. She began to fidget, rubbing the tips of her fingers together and beginning to fidget.

"Hi," she finally said at length, swearing to herself silently at her loss for words.

"What are you doing here?" Hawke asked, his eyes darting left and right as though he were anticipating some sort of ambush.

"You've a guest, Messere!" Bodahn called from another room, oblivious to the awkward reunion in the main hall. "Serrah Isabela has come, isn't that swell?"

"Thank you, Bodahn," Hawke called back, a smile playing at his lips. He then looked down and crossed his arms over his chest, drawing a circle on the floor with his boot. "So what are you doing here?"

The crassness in his voice was not unexpected but it still shook Isabela. The reunion was difficult enough without the confrontation, but she supposed she deserved it. In any other situation she would have thrown her hands up in the air and paced away, a snide comment on her lips as she found her fun somewhere in Lowtown. But there was something about this that was different. His willingness to toss her aside felt wrong, the rejection was too hard coming from him. Though it clasped an iron claw about her heart it also fortified her resolve to stand her ground and see this through.

"We need to talk," she said, having retracted her fingers into her palm save for her index fingers, which still continued to twist at their tips. With each word she found herself eagerly awaiting a response.

Hawke blew out a sigh and looked up. "What are we going to talk about, Isabela?"

"Please don't make this so hard, Hawke," Isabela said, her old ways, her pride getting the best of her. "If I'm going to come back here the least you could do is hear me out."

Hawke nodded. "You're right."

"Thank you." Isabela took in a long breath. Everything she wanted to say was all there, right in front of her, but like a boulder blocking the last path to her escape she just could not find the strength to move it. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, how scared she had been since the moment she saw the Arishok die at Hawke's feet. She knew what she had been, knew how ungrateful she had been. She knew that Hawke had did it for her, she remembered the way he had looked up from the Qunari's body, his blood spattered look darting to her, a sense of calm washing over him when he realized that she would be safe.

Her sense of calm had been immediately dashed when she stared at the dead overlord of the Qunari. She had taken a precarious step on someone _else's_ behalf, when freedom had been so close, a good solid wind away she threw it away for Hawke. Not for anyone else, not for Merrill, not for Kirkwall, for Hawke. And it scared her. She had spent so many nights wondering who she was after that moment, doubting herself, at times even hating herself. The thought of a good deed had not shaken her, despite what she may have told Fenris or Varric, but the idea that she had so willingly thrown shackles around her own wrists seemed so out of her own character that it was dangerous, unnerving, frightening even.

The longer it had gone on the easier it was to blame Hawke, especially when she did not give him the chance to defend his own case. She had turned every hint of venom upon him, blaming him for chaining her to Kirkwall and its fate, for guilting her, for trying to change who she was. Isabela knew they were all lies, but it was easier to lie than face the fact that she cared for someone enough to run into the middle of the hurricane to grab for their hand at the risk of being pulled in herself.

She wanted to tell him all these things but the words continued to elude her.

"I'm sorry," she finally said at length, aware all at once how pitiful her words were in the face of her offenses. "I've been...I haven't been right, I know that. Not by you, Andraste knows that." Her words were all a mess. She looked away as though the answers would be hiding somewhere in Hawke's grand hall. She sighed and bit her lip, then crossed her arms. "I'm sorry," she repeated, more forcefully as though that would clarify everything.

"I'm sorry too," Hawke said. If Isabela's life had depended upon masking her surprise she would not be long for the world.

"Sorry?" she asked, this time it was her turn to look left to right as Hawke had. "For what?"

"That night," Hawke started slowly, "a little over a year ago. When you came to me after...my mother. I chased you out of here like a bandit. You didn't deserve that."

Isabela felt her heart suddenly drop. Without even realizing it she was stepping toward him, pulling him into a hug. She had completely forgotten that night, so consumed was she in her own thoughts, guilts, and sins. Only with his words did she remember his icy words, but at that time they had barely phased her.

"Hawke," she said quietly, "you were hurt. You were angry. Sometimes you have to hit something." She pulled away and threw him her telltale grin. "And I just happened to be nearby."

"There was no excuse," Hawke admitted as he looked at her. That shimmer was coming back to his hazel green eyes.

"It's fine, do you think that's what this is about?"

Hawke shrugged slowly. It felt good to feel his arms snake around her waist again. "I have no idea what this is about."

That seemed a simple enough answer. Here they stood now, arms wrapped about one another, apologizing for a series of grievances neither could aptly put to words, having butt heads over offenses that neither had well recognized. She remembered the first time she had come to his house, the way she had forcefully prodded him until they were rolling on his bed, struggling to find latches, straps, and hidden weapons that deterred their exploration of each others' bodies.

It had been a more playful embrace then, not the solemn quiet one they had now. After a long moment of silence between the two, Hawke's hand finally found its way against her satchel, bouncing against the solid object inside. He knocked it once with his knuckles.

"What is that?"

"Oh," Isabela said, stepping out of his arms and undoing the bag, sliding a pair of bottles out of it filled with what the barkeep had called potato wine. "These were just in case everything went well, then we could celebrate."

"And how would you say things are going?" Hawke took that step toward her that she lived, looking the part of the pirate himself, though she knew he'd never admit it.

"I don't know," she said coyly, still holding the bottles in her hands. She arched her back when the man tucked her arms around his waist again, careful not to drop the potato wine while also feigning an attempt at escape. "I'd say it's going better than expected."

Perhaps enticed by the glow of the candle light on her copper skin or simply being all too invited by the way she lurched her head back, Hawke leaned in and brought his lips against the nape of her neck at the collar, causing her to shudder and let out a soft "Mmm," of approval. For a moment her eyes fluttered shut, but they opened she saw, upside down from her perspective, Bodahn standing in the doorway, a towel flung over his arm.

"Right," he said suddenly, turning on his heels. "I'll see you on the morrow, Messere Hawke."

Isabela chuckled to herself as she felt the cold air touch her wet skin where Hawke pulled away. "Uh, sleep well Bodahn," he said back, before looking back down and laughing with Isabela. For a brief moment the two shared a kiss and all at once Isabela felt as though the night had paid off. The black wings of doubt and fear continued to beat at the sides of her head, creating a thrum at the same pace as her heartbeat, but it seemed all that much easier to endure at this moment.

As Hawke tightened his grip around her the time for thought had passed and now Isabela was acting on instinct, like a cat that felt the brush of grass on its face knowing instinctively to prowl in pursuit of its prey. She ground her hips forward, striking home and flashing a grin of ivory when she felt stiff flesh pushing back, twisting one of her legs so that she stood on only one, the other rubbing up and down against her man before snaking about his waist. The arch of her back, the writhe of her leg had been an invitation and Hawke knew the game well enough to play, accepting her summons, spurring a moan of delight from the pirate as his mouth began to assail the top of her breasts, more from the feeling of having him there than any particular sensation.

It seemed all he could do to not force her on the floor there, pinning her down beneath his weight and ravaging her, the intensity of every gesture, the forceful bites and occasional suckle that clued her in, but the man clearly thought better of it. She used soft grunts and whimpers to spur the man on, to encourage and guide him. Hands between her legs swept across just the right spot of flesh, causing her to purr gently, and for a moment he'd delight her with a rub, then earn her pleasant ire by finding something else, leaving the point he had just touched throbbing hungrily for more.

Without even realizing it they had appeared in his bedroom, her thoughts having completely abandoned her beyond there. She looked down and realized she had grabbed the bottles of potato wine even if she did not remember doing so. Deciding she had no use for those yet, she let them fall at the foot of his bed before throwing herself at him, squirming as she felt her chest press against his, moaning as she felt his stiffness pressing against her slickening garments that did little to hide her modesty at this point. She felt a sudden rise of frustration at the cloth and suede that stood between them.

Hawke was pressing her halfway against the bed, her back arched once more as she strained painfully for balance, fighting gravity itself to be close to him, to pull him closer and feel his mouth on hers. Finally she escalated things, taking matters, as well as him, into her own hands as she slid a hand across his abdomen and into the waistband of his trousers. She pulled until she could feel a pop in his belt, probably ruining it, causing her to laugh at the thought. A night was well spent when a wardrobe was damaged, she thought, digging her hand further until she felt his skin in her hands. The entire knob was practically pulsing, begging in its own way to be inside of her and so she rewarded it with a twist of her palm, pulling until she met the resistance of his head, promising it an escape from its prison.

The man pulled away from the kiss a moment to give a groan of approval and Isabela rewarded him with a bite of his lower lip. When she felt him instinctively pull away she tugged a little harder, skillfully releasing before breaking skin, then offering a gentle peck on the offended lip, smiling into his eyes when she did so. The ball was in her court now and Isabela did not give a chance for Hawke to seize the momentum. Her hand released him and slid from his trousers and she released her leg from him, giving one more small press of her hips before gliding down to her knees in front of him, bringing her eye level with his belt buckle. It gave her a chance to assess the damage she had done to the thing and she grinned when she realized that the lip had been torn enough that it now hung loosely. A quick tug and twist and the buckle fell away, allowing her to unbutton the man and free his erection to her delight.

Isabela gave him a gentle kiss that caused Hawke's manhood to bob, earning her a wry grin of approval before she slipped it into her mouth, adding a hint of a moan for his pleasure. She worked quickly, bobbing her head forward and slickening him, insuring that her hard won stiffness was here to stay, twisting her head to excite him further. A moment was all it took before she pulled away, looking up at him and grinning at the look of approval he shot back down at her, the taste of him still on her lips. When she rose again she refused to release the man's flesh from her grip and he returned the answer, sliding his hands beneath the cloth that one could argue passed for a skirt and tugging at the garments that lay beneath.

She rolled her hips and then let herself fall back on the mattress, her feet accidentally batting aside one of the discarded bottles of potato wine as she did so. Hawke's eyes were intently focused on hers, but they drew downward to watch as he removed the only remaining barrier between them. When they were pulled over Isabela's boots she kicked her feet a bit to send them scampering across the room, winning a laugh from both of them, a comfortable, well won laugh as though a year of tension had never existed between them.

Hawke tried to press between her openly parted legs, stepping out of his discarded trousers, but Isabela wrapped tightly about him and in a single motion used the strength of her hips, and perhaps a bit of his own compliance, to toss him onto the bed. She climbed atop him, offering an approving coo as his erection rubbed between her legs, her moist heat begging for him to enter. Rather than protest, Hawke put his hands on her hips and pulled her in close.

She elevated herself a bit on her knees and held him in her hands, guiding him forward so that the tip of him rubbed against her lips, causing her body to shudder. She could suffer no more games, no more hold outs. Her body was begging for it and when she slid down him, pressing the man inside of her she cried out softly. It was more than a simple joining of his body into hers, it was more than just another night, she thought. That gentle glide, the slick press of skin against skin was a homecoming, and only then did all the pieces fall together and remind her how much she had missed him. When the entirety of his gerth had come into her, his head resting off the pillow to watch her, a hint of sweat beating against his brow, she took a moment to grind her body forward, rocking him inside of her and shuddering as her pearl struck home against his body.

Soft moans filled the room, separated by the woman panting in delight as electricity jolted through her when the knob between her legs would hit just the right spot. Delighted already, Isabela leaned forward, squirming at the tight feeling of Hawke's hands on her hips and she began to buck, thrusting against him with such that she worried she might dislodge the bed. Every time she came down upon him she felt him answering the call, a silent dialogue between the two, reminding one another that they belonged to each other.

Isabela began to lose sense of time and before long she could feel a burning in her hips from the motions, but it was a good one. She was growing tired and she could see Hawke was likewise, but in spite of it all she only began to press him harder. Her soft skin slamming against the tight muscles of his thighs causing a slapping noise that was nearly as loud as her growing cries of pleasure. Then, all at once, almost suddenly and without warning she felt her body fidget, a switch being flipped in her body and the tide of her climax set in, made all the better by the feelings of his own pulsing inside of her.


	19. Chapter 18 - The Hanged Man

They had not dived into the bottles immediately. Hawke had been barely able to resist himself with the woman secured in his arms and when she had laid them down onto the ground carefully, staring at him with those predatory eyes. All at once it felt as though Tiber Hawke were looking at the old Isabela again and where any doubts may have existed when looking in her eyes were dispelled when her hands began to roam his body with the skill of a carpenter.

They had struggled, tumbled with one another's clothes as they had in times long past, though the year of yearning left them both frustrated, leaving the majority of their clothes on as they simply tore away the basics. With every thrust of Isabela's hips he could feel as well as hear her claiming him, reasserting that he was hers, and with each bit and push back he agreed and proclaimed the same.

The battle of bodies between the two had been brief and welcome, both lying beside one another, eyes drawn to the ceiling, though one of Isabela's feet drawing a line up and down Hawke's leg as she laid beside him. The sounds of her breath were a message of contentment and it helped to clear Hawke's troubled mind.

When they finished and both regained their energy they shared a brief kiss, then Hawke was the first to rise. He leaned across the bed and fetched one of the bottles that Isabela had dragged with her. Upon uncorking the top a detestable, acidic waft of air assailed him almost instantly in spite of the clear, water like texture of the liquid inside.

"This comes from potatos?" he scoffed as he took a simple sip, which seemed like an immediate mistake. His mouth howled in protest, his throat wretching and clenching shut. A gag brought a laugh from Isabela he climbed through and over him to take the bottle from his hands.

"That's what I hear," she said as she swished it around, watching the liquid. "You're doing it wrong," she said as she looked at his twisted visage, trying to rationalize what he had just swallowed. "Like this." Isabela inhaled deeply, then let out all the breath she had just sucked in. The moment the last of the breath had passed her lips she threw her head back, bringing the bottle to bear and drinking three impressive gulps before shoving the liquor back into Hawke's chest, gasping for air and breathing heavily. "As so," she proclaimed proudly.

Hawke stared at the bottle before taking it in shaky hands. "Just...breathe?"

"Just breathe."

He did his best to mimic her, sucking in a long breath, then exhaling. It came easier that time, but he still sputtered and disgusting fiery liquid sputtered over his lips that at the time seemed to be the funniest thing Isabela had ever seen.

It became easier the more Hawke drank. The first few, sober sips were difficult, with the body all but rioting at the thought of injecting more. But once a certain point had passed that same body had changed its mind and yearned for more. It was one of the more potent drinks he had ever consumed and before long Hawke seriously doubted they would need the second bottle.

Before half an hour had passed Hawke found the world moving in slow motion, euphoria in a constant struggle against any of his woes. The intoxication augmented every pleasant feeling coursing through his body, turning the delight of Isabel at his side into a pure joy.

He swung his legs over his bed and found his trousers, awkwardly jamming his legs into them and trying to stand. It was a difficult thing, feeling as though the floor was rocking beneath him, causing him to reach for a bedpost to try to stabilize.

"Tiber Hawke," Isabela giggled, interrupted by a hiccup. "You...are drunk."

"Speak for yourself," Hawke said back with a slight laugh, his words slurred and his voice inflecting with random volumes. That realization made him laugh and he forced himself to his feet, buttoning the top of his trousers and struggling across the room.

"You asked," he said, though with a shake of his head he restarted his sentence for emphasis, "You asked if I missed Lowtown."

"That was almost two years ago," the drunken Isabela retorted with a snort, rolling on her side and propping her head on her hand. Hawke turned to face her, eyes scanning her copper skin as he rested his back against the wall for balance.

"I've thought about it a lot since you asked. And you know what I miss? I miss the Hanged Man." The words were surprisingly difficult to formulate, each one a struggle to force out of his mouth.

"The Hanged Man?" Isabela asked incredulously. "Truly? I believe _you_ were the one that said it was a giant chamber pot with wine at the bottom." She pointed at him for emphasis.

"Well, it is," Hawke admitted, laughing in spite of himself. He ran his hands over his face for a moment while he tried to collect his thoughts. "Let me show you why I miss it." He stumbled across the room towards a table on the far end with a chess board engraved on the top. Losing his balance, he was forced to catch himself and brace his weight against it, knocking many of the pieces to the floor.

"Be careful," Isabela warned with a chortle.

"Hush you," Hawke japed back. He knocked on top of the table. "What is this?"

"It's a uh...table?"

"What's on it?"

"I'm too drunk for this, Hawke." Isabela shook her head several times, then stopped and widened her eyes as she tried to realign herself to the world that was spinning around her.

"Just work with me. What is this table?"

"It's a chess board, I guess?"

"Right!" Hawke pointed at her as he stood. "It's a chess board, that's all it can ever really be. It will never be anything but a chess board, because it's carved into the wood. But you see that table over there? It can be _anything_."

"Or it can be a table," Isabela mused, still not following.

Hawke shook his head. "It can be anything I want it to be. I can put a chess board on it if I wanted to, or I can play Liar's Dice on it, or I can eat off of it, or I can play cards on it, or I can dance on it."

"You? Dance?"

"I know, shush. But it can be _anything_. That's the Hanged Man. No one has defined it. No one has determined what it is. We just...go in there and we have no guidance. You, me, Varric, Merrill, Fenris...we just start drinking and we make whatever we want out of that piss stenched room. We make our own time and I will always remember those nights." Hawke sighed against the air that was rising in his belly then cleared his throat. "We make the night whatever we want it to be. That's what I see everytime I walk into the Hanged Man. Hightown is this chessboard."

Isabela nodded slowly, beginning to understand.

"Chess is a great game, I play it with Bodahn a lot. Once I tried to play with Sandal." He chopped a hand through the air. "Terrible mistake. But what if I don't want to play chess? I don't remember every chess game I've played. That's Hightown. Everyone is so scared of their own imaginations...they need their lives to be...to be...dictated for them. They find that safety in their rules and their norms and their...their courtesies. But I don't remember one dinner any better than the other, one play over another, no better than chess games. But I remember every night we made our own game out of the Hanged Man."

Any jest had disappeared from Hawke's expression as he looked at the two tables, memories splayed across his face as he compared the two. Isabela wore a small smile.

"That was almost poetic," she said as she sat up, swinging her bare legs over the bed. "Hightown is rubbing off on you."

Hawke slid back down into a sitting position, crossing his arms over his chest and burrowing his face between his elbows.

"I've still got Lowtown where it counts," he said in a haphazard attempt at a joke.

"Look at the big man," Isabela said, though her voice trailed off into a series of absurd laughs. At first Hawke simply watched her, though the harder she laughed the more compelled he was to join her, until they were both giggling like idiots, neither one knowing why.

When Isabela finally got ahold of herself she plucked up the bottle again and swallowed what remained of its contents.

"This stuff is a lot more potent than I thought," she said, shaking her head, "I like it."

"Like isn't the word I'd use for it."

Isabela struggled to find her own undergarments and stepped into them, then she stretched, her own body swaying as she struggled to find her balance. "Oh!" she said suddenly, shaking her hips as she tucked the garments upward with a shake of her hips, spinning to face Hawke. "Did you hear about the lottery?"

Hawke shook his head. "With all due respect I haven't given two shits about the lottery. Especially given everything happening."

With a stretch of her arms, Isabela slid up next to Hawke, pressing her body against his as she rested her back against the wall, resting her head on his shoulder. "Apparently they're 'temporarily postponing it'. Asses." She spat the words out of her mouth. "Sounds like a right excuse to take our money and run."

"Postponed?" Hawke queried. "Why?"

The woman shrugged. "Beats me, no one talks to a pirate trying to get easy money."

Hawke frowned, but it was becoming difficult to formulate a complete thought. Darkness and sleep were tugging at the edges of his vision and the warm feeling of Isabela's head resting against his shoulder was a distracting comfort. He muttered some sort of response, getting only a "What?" in turn before he drifted off to sleep.


	20. Chapter 19 - The Horse's Pledge

A commotion had swept up the streets of Kirkwall, starting at the docks and spilling over all the way to Hightown, gossips about a "catastrophe" or turf war breaking out aboard the ships. Varric Tethras had heard these stories a thousand times before and the first few chirps he heard had been as easily dismissed as any other gossip that had passed by him. It became harder, however, to dismiss the claims when armored guards darted through the streets on a clear mission, first a single patrol, then a small army passing by. Then even respectable merchants who would never give in to gossip began to share the same tales that Varric had heard at the hanged man, finally perking his ears.

He tried to put it out of sight and out of mind, but it was a folly he realized, burrowing into the back of his head until the curiosity began to overcome him. The situation finally came to its head when he climbed the stairs to the Viscount's Keep, meaning to discuss business with the Minister of Finance. Loans upon loans, debt to pay for debt had passed between the city of Kirkwall and the Dwarven Merchants' Guild and it would be necessary for both of them to blow sweet air into each others' ears and convince themselves they would each walk away the victor. Aveline, surrounded by guards in fresh, polished armor was descending the very same stair that Varric was climbing, a helmet tucked under her arm, a look of concern on her face.

"Aveline," Varric acknowledged out of courtesy, flashing her a toothy smile. So involved in whatever had warranted her attention was she that she had not even noticed Varric as she nearly bumped into him. She raised a hand to stop her guards.

"Varric," she said back, "I need you."

"Ah no matter how many times I've heard a pretty lady greet me so it never gets old," he said, his smile twisting into a grin.

That grin disappeared immediately when Aveline's look of consternation turned to a scowl. "Not now," she commanded with a tone that left no room for argument. "I need you to go find Hawke and get him to the docks."

"This minute?" Varric glanced and gestured toward the Keep to emphasize his business there.

"_Now_," Aveline barked before looking back at her men and jerking her hand forward, continuing her march without sparing Varric another glance. For a long moment the Dwarf simply stood and watched her, his loyalty to his meeting with the Minister at war with his loyalty to Aveline. With a shrug and a sigh Aveline won out and he turned one more apologetic look upon the Keep before marching off to Hawke's mansion.

More guards filed past Varric as he walked, looking more like an army marching to war, though no matter who he tried to ask on his journey he would get little more than what he'd heard that morning: a turf war had broken out on the docks. He wasn't so sure. The absence of the Viscount had certainly emboldened the gangs, but now their fear of the city guard had been replaced by their feat of one another. To grow too bold, to get too aggressive would form coalitions against one another. Right now Kirkwall was a candy shop, none of them wanted to risk that over a war.

Besides, Varric was confident that he would have heard something through the Carta if something _that_ big were to go down. Small secrets cast long shadows in Kirkwall. Even with the Viscount dead and buried a year on the biggest hit any of the gangs had tried was a noble woman that had failed to pay one of the bosses back, and even that had brought the iron hammer of Aveline down onto all of them.

Varric adjusted Bianca over his shoulder and rapped his knuckles against Hawke's front door. The Dwarf Bodahn was there to greet him.

"Serrah Tethras, so good to see you!" Bodahn exclaimed. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to see Hawke," Varric said curtly.

"I'm afraid the master's had a bit of a night and won't be available for most of the day."

"Yeah..." Varric said, shaking his head and rubbing at the stubble on his chin, "that's not going to work. Master's going to have to get his lazy ass up and get down here."

Bodahn looked as though he were getting ready to argue, but then thought better of it. "I can try, Serrah," he said, "begging your pardons if he won't rise."

"Tell him it's important," Varric insisted. Bodahn agreed and shut the door a moment before plodding off through the mansion. Several minutes later the door opened again, the red-clad Dwarf looking as though he had just wrestled with a dragon.

"Messere Hawke is comin'," Bodahn assured, "if you'll be waitin' a minute."

"Sure," Varric said impatiently, leaning against the door frame. Bodahn did his best to try to make small talk but nothing gained traction until Hawke had arrived. The man looked like he'd been eaten and shit out by a giant, Varric thought, his hair going in every conceivable direction and heavy black bags under his eyes. Against the assault of the sun's rays he threw a hand over his eyes and groaned. "Hawke, what the hell happened to you?"

"Long night," the man grumbled, looking down at Varric. "What's so important?"

"Aveline wants us at the docks," Varric explained, wise enough to avoid questioning the man's nocturnal activities any further, "something big happened."

Confused, Hawke groaned again. "Can it wait?"

"Apparently not, she was very, _very_ insistent."

The Champion let out a sigh and looked down at Bodahn, who only offered the master a helpless shrug. "Get my cloak for me, will you?" he said as he futiley ran his fingers through his matted hair. "How do I look?" he asked Varric.

"Like shit," he said as Bodahn offered the cloak to Hawke. "Let's go."

Neither said anything as they walked to the docks, though Hawke took several moments to stop and lean against a post, groaning with none of the dignity that would be expected of the Champion of Kirkwall. Varric chuckled to himself at the sight, knowing the work of alcohol any time he saw it. They saw more guards on their journey, once more pushing past in packs, most trotting at an earnest jog.

When they arrived the entire district was filled to the bursting point with people of every social class and garb, all mashed together in a sea of bodies that Varric had not seen since the battle against the Qunari. Guards were posted at seemingly every ten or so paces, using long spears as barriers to try to keep some semblance of order amongst the curious gawkers. Varric and Hawke shared a concerned look before pushing through the crowd, the guards tossing them a nod of recognition as they did so.

After what felt like an eternity pushing through flesh and sweat they finally found themselves at the harbor, where Aveline stood at a crevice of open space, barking orders at the guards who were struggling between walking up and down a large ship and trying to keep onlookers from contaminating the crime scene any further.

"You called?" Varric said as he approached Aveline, who spun on her heels to take in the sight of Hawke and the Dwarf. Her eyes widened ever so slightly when she saw Hawke's disheaveled state.

"I don't suppose you had something to do with this," Aveline said, pointing back at the ship behind her. Hawke and Varric's eyes followed the direction of her finger, both wearing quizzical looks. The ship was strung into port by thousands of ropes tying it to the wooden dock, which though unusual, could not have prepared them for the sight of what appeared to be two dozen heads along the sides of the ship. Each one had been torn from the body and rammed into a spike that was placed in the wooden frame and upon closer inspection the eyes were torn from their sockets.

Varric's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight, shaking his head. Now he understood, it certainly _looked_ the part of a turf war, but why hadn't he heard anything? Hawke looked both confused and mortified.

"Why would _I_ have anything to do with this?" he snapped back angrily. Hawke took another look at the heads, his eyes fixated on three of them, one wearing a bandana, another shaven, the last with a crooked nose, the color bleeding from his face. "I saw those three men yesterday."

"Where?" Varric asked, his curiosity overwhelming his senses.

"In Lowtown, they were just...cargo haulers, or something. I wasn't paying attention, but the one with the big nose tried to pick a fight with me."

Varric laughed. "Looks like they lost."

Aveline was in no mood for jokes. "Stop laughing," she hissed at Varric before turning the entirety of her might back upon Hawke. "That pressgang that went after Fenris was traced back to this ship."

Hawke's eyes narrowed and even without the help of the alcohol he looked as though he were going to be sick. "No," he insisted, "I went straight home last night. When did this happen?"

Aveline blew out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know, a dockworker found them like this at dawn. We have no idea how long the heads have been there."

"Pirates?" Varric offered.

"Sure seems like a message to pressgangs," Aveline retorted, "the bodies are all below deck, chained to the oars." Hawke was still shaking his head. "And you're sure Fenris had nothing to do with this? His temper..."

"Fenris had nothing to do with this," Hawke said, though his voice was quiet as he struggled with disbelief.

"How can you be so sure? I respect him, Hawke, but if he's gone this far..."

"Aveline," Hawke insisted, turning to look at her intensely, "it wasn't Fenris."

She looked agitated, then finally conceded. "Fine," she said, "it wasn't Fenris. Who was it?"

"I don't know," Hawke said, almost pleadingly.

Varric took that chance to step in. "Hey, Aveline," he said, waving a hand, "the man's dying of a hangover here. Why don't we leave the interrogation to something a little more private after I got some food into him?"

Aveline took a moment to expend the remainder of her frustration in a series of glares between them. Finally she let it all out with a sigh and put her hands on her hips. "Fine," she conceded, "you're right." She turned and looked back at the heads, wincing as a guard was forced to shake his fist at a seagull picking at one of them. "We need to talk about this though."

"We'll talk about it," Hawke promised, visibly grateful for Varric's intervention.

"Let's go, Hawke," Varric insisted, gesturing for them to leave and starting down his own path. "I'm sure Aveline is going to be busy for a while."

Hawke took one more look at the head with the crooked nose, shaking his head before conceding to follow after Varric. Once again they were forced to push through the crowds, though this time Varric led them down a side path, slipping into a less crowded alley. A few short turns and twists later they would be back in Lowtown - sweet Lowtown by comparison to this morning's grizzly discovery.

When they were finally out of earshot from the crowd Varric spoke at last. "You know who did it, don't you?"

Hawke grimaced, Varric could practically feel it. "I have an idea."

"Any plans on sharing?"

"Let me talk to Fenris first."

"The Elf?" Varric chewed on the information for a moment, then stopped, pulling Hawke into yet another side alley. "Really?"

"I wasn't lying," Hawke insisted, "he didn't do it either. But I need to talk to him. Just be quiet about this, for today at least."

Varric watched him intently for a moment, then finally shrugged and threw out his hands innocently. "Anything for you, Hawke." He shook his head angrily. "This entire town is going to shit. First the lottery now this."

"What happened with the lottery anyway? This isn't the first I've heard of it."

"Couldn't tell you," Varric said with a sigh, "Meredith said it's off until further notice. Lot of people are pissed about it. I don't blame them."

"Did she even have any lottery money to give away in the first place?"

"Oh yes," Varric said with a stout laugh, "it was quite the little scam actually. Borrow three thousand dragons from some rich Tevinters, tell everyone they can get it for a few gold purchase of their own, watch the money pile up, keep the worth of the tickets, give out the original three thousand, swim away rich. Beautiful, I wish I'd thought of it."

Hawke froze, looking as though he'd seen a ghost clamor out of the shadows behind Varric. Just in case, the Dwarf threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Where did you say she got it from?" Hawke asked, his voice heavy.

"Some rich Tevinters fronted the money. I'm sure even Meredith isn't stupid enough to try to swindle them, but who knows, that woman surprises me more and more everyday."

Without another word Hawke pushed past Varric, an intense focus in his step. For a moment the Dwarf even found himself doubting that the Champion had ever suffered from a hangover at all. "Where are you going?" he asked, confused.

"I _really_ need to talk to Fenris," Hawke said without turning to look at the Dwarf, leaving Varric to simply watch as the man disappeared down the alleyways of Lowtown on a mission.

Varric sighed. "I wish someone would tell _me_ something." He kicked at the dirt a bit and started to follow in Hawke's direction, though the wind went out of his chest as he felt an arm wrap around him, pulling him forcefully against what felt like a suit of armor with a loud clang. His head crashed against a breastplate, causing him to swear. "What the hell?" he yelled before a hand suddenly clasped over his mouth, his silence further earned by a piece of cold steel at his throat. For a moment he kicked and struggled, but whoever had grasped him was worlds stronger. A moment later the only evidence that he had ever been there was the dust that he had kicked up and the groove in the sand where his legs had thrashed in a futile attempt to escape.


	21. Chapter 20 - The Knight-Commander Calls

Aveline wondered if there could be an end to the day as the sun pushed itself closer to noon. The grim discovery at dawn had consumed the majority of the guards from their posts, leaving large swathes of Kirkwall completely barren of patrols. The city would rely on a prayer and the Maker's grace to keep it from tearing itself apart. Though, she thought as she looked out at the gathered crowd, it also seemed that every resident of the city had decided to pour into the docks to get a look at the spiked heads, so maybe it would not be so difficult afterall.

The tall, red-haired woman had watched Hawke leave with a sigh on her lips, meaning to apologize more profusely for the forceful accusation she had heaped upon him, particularly in front of her own guards, but the words had not come to her. She knew the man, deep down she knew that he would harbor no resentment toward her, but she could not shake her own feeling of guilt for stepping so broadly out of line.

The entire situation was a catastrophe. Confidence was already shaken in the city guard with the disappearance of the Templar and she did not even have to look at the manifests to know that ships were coming in with less and less goods each week. How long would it be, she wondered, until they stopped coming in at all? Stories of ships covered in the heads of their crew did little to instill economic confidence, she was afraid.

Despite all that Aveline had seen since coming to Kirkwall nothing could have prepared her for the grizzly sight aboard the ship. There was something methodically evil about those bodies, stacked lifelessly at every post, their wrists and ankles shackled down as though a sick jest about the headless corpses trying to escape. It reminded her of what Hawke had told her about his mother, causing her stomach to churn. But she had been stonewall in front of her guards, even snapping at one of the younger ones for cursing in the Maker's name at the sight. The poor man had started to turn green, she'd had no choice but to escort him off the ship, hand him a spear, and tell him to tend to the crowd.

Aveline had no idea what she was going to pass off as the official story, but unofficially she had already heard whispers, the citizenry gossiping that Kirkwall was about to be embroiled in a brutal turf war between the gangs. She needed to quelch that rumor before it had a chance to grow wings and take flight. But just in case Donnic was discreetly rounding up several of the known rabble rousers from the streets for questioning.

For the entire first half of the day she had barked orders until her voice had gone hoarse, then yelled some more in a desperate attempt to balance order with carefully digging up what clues they could find. Without a clue where to begin she had finally decided that the best course of action would be to simply remove the bodies and notify what families they could. She suspected that they would simply have to post a public notice for families of the _Nautilus_, a grim job that would be.

When the sun had reached its zenith and the crowd was beginning to clear Aveline spied Knight-Captain Cullen approaching, a pair of guards at his side to escort him through the crowd. The grim look on his face told her everything she needed to know about his message. His eyes drew away from her and up to the spiked heads that were becoming remarkably difficult to protect from the gulls.

Aveline opened her mouth to speak, but anticipating this Cullen raised a hand to cut her off. "The Knight-Commander wants to see you," Cullen said, his voice full of a grave warning.

"If you couldn't tell, we-," Cullen cut her off as she gestured toward the severed heads.

"Trust me," he pressed, "you do not want to refuse her this time. It will not end well for you or the city, I promise you that."

Aveline looked at her guards helplessly, as though she were actually entertaining the notion of forcefully refusing Cullen, but the gravity of the man's voice left few doubts as to his sincerity. She gritted her teeth and looked at him. "Then what am I supposed to do about this?"

"Find your next best man and have him oversee it. I am to see you to the Circle immediately."

Cullen's eyes were stern but etched with a plea for her compliance and Aveline was a smart enough woman to realize that she was now in over her head. There was a careful line one was forced to toe when dealing with the Templars and even if every law of the Maker and Kirkwall were on her side it would no more save her from a noose than Andraste had been spared from the flames. Feeling all at once helpless and angry she turned on her heels.

"Jalen," she called out, drawing the man from his inspection of one of the heads. "Get down here." The guard offered a brief salute then trotted down the gangplank to Aveline's side. "I have a..." she looked at Cullen and sighed, "matter, an urgent matter I have to attend to. You are in charge here until I get back." Aveline gestured toward the crowd. "Get these people dispersed and have the bodies ready to move by the time I get back."

"Aye, Captain," Jalen said with a bow of his head, his voice muffled beneath his helmet. "And questioning?"

"Question everyone who lives in the radius. By the Maker I want no stone unturned, we'll extend the sweep later when I get back."

"As you wish, Captain."

Aveline turned again to face Cullen, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. "Let's step to then."

The crowd parted for Knight-Captain Cullen and Aveline could not help but wonder if it was out of fear or respect. The man had an increasingly complex reputation growing about him, bringing the hammer down without mercy against apostates that dabbled in blood magic, but simultaneously singing a song of peace to Templars that all too often overstepped their bounds. On more than one occasion Aveline had arrived under the threat that a fight was going to break out between her guards and a Templar that mistook his position in Kirkwall's society, only to find that Cullen had dispelled the situation and openly chastised his soldiers for their foolishness.

When they reached the Gallows a phalanx of Templars was there to greet them, covered head to toe in plate and mail, swords drawn and eyes alert. How threatened had the incident at the docks made Meredith feel, she wondered. They each brought their swords to their chest in salute to Cullen as he passed and he would gesture to each of them, not one to allow the urgency of his task override the formalities of his position.

The inside of the Circle's antechamber housed just as many Templars in various guarding positions, but an entire division of them it seemed before the enormous, runed walls that led to the inner Circle. Had there been threats of a mage revolt? Aveline shook her head, suspecting Meredith would have cracked down eminently harder than simply posting more guards if that were the case.

Cullen remained silent until they reached the Knight-Commander's office. "I understand where you stand," he warned, putting a hand on the door to keep Aveline from opening it, "but diplomacy is what we need here. The Knight-Commander is in a mood and one misstep could see half the city's heads on pikes and the other dangling from a noose if we aren't careful."

Aveline wasn't so sure he was serious, but the stern gaze that lingered in his eyes and the black cloud that hung over his head left little doubt that Meredith would have to be handled with a certain care. A certain care Aveline was mildly worried she was not equipped with.

At first Cullen sighed, then when he sucked back in the breath he stood as tall as he could and pulled open the door, gesturing for Aveline to step inside.

Knight-Commander Meredith was waiting inside, her armor covered in dust from the road and her haunting blue eyes buried in a map with her Tranquil assistant listing off information relevant to whatever they were looking at. It all seemed normal, save for the frail figure of Grand Cleric Elthina sitting at the far end of the room, hands clasped in her lap, watching intently. The wizened old woman was the first to look at Aveline when she approached, the cleric offering a true but sad smile. Meredith then looked up, sending silver grey locks of hair bouncing as she did so.

"Guard-Captain," she hissed in her venomous tone, rising from the map. "At last she heeds my summons." The Tranquil that was assisting Meredith showed no reaction, as such mages were wont to do, instead stepping back several paces, staring blankly ahead until she would be needed again.

It took all of Aveline's strength to keep from biting back with a retort of her own, instead channeling it to her reverence for Elthina. She bowed her head to the old woman.

"Your grace," Aveline said, "I did not expect to see you here."

"I am most saddened to be," the cleric said mournfully, "this is a dark day. I imagine the Dalish would say a red moon will rise for it."

Cullen closed the door behind them and slipped into a corner of the room, doing his best to look the part of a sentry. It made Aveline feel strangely alone in the room full of people. She gritted her teeth to keep from giving Meredith an excuse, trying hard to heed Cullen's warning.

"A ship full of heads in the docks of Kirkwall!" Meredith howled as she threw her hands in the air. She began to pace in front of Aveline. "And still no word on my missing Templar. I have half a mind to disband the entire guard and order the Templars to keep order, since you seem so incapable of doing so."

You could never do that, Aveline wanted to say, her eyes turning to the grand cleric, pleading for assistance.

"A week now," Meredith continued, "a week Ser Josain has been missing and even with the help of the Champion you have still yet to turn up any leads."

"When a man disappears entirely, it's not always easy to _find_ leads," Aveline finally snapped back, slowly turning to face Meredith once more.

"Perhaps for you," was the Knight-Commander's chilling, arrogant respond. "I am taking command of this investigation starting at once and we will upturn every rock until we've found him."

You intend to smoke out every house in Lowtown with torches, you mean, Aveline thought with a grimace. "Until we have reason to believe there is mage involvement-,"

"We have every reason to believe there is mage involvement and I will suffer your excuses no more," Meredith interrupted, pounding her fist into her palm.

Grand Cleric Elthina cleared her throat and rose to her feet. "I'm sorry child," she said in her soothing, matriarchal voice, "but with Ser Josain missing so long it has become a Chantry affair. You can assist us best by insuring that this incident at the docks does not turn into greater mayhem."

Aveline felt her blood beginning to boil and almost did not notice that she was clenching her fists.

"This incident aboard the ship is only the beginning," Meredith continued, as though the Grand Cleric had not spoken at all, "we will face an open revolution at this pace. Ser Josain's death has only emboldened the already upstart mages and now the people have been mutinous since I was forced to postpone the lottery."

Aveline crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. "Why _did_ you cancel the lottery?"

Meredith's eyes widened in the purest anger that Aveline had seen in recent memory. "That is _none_ of your concern. Your _only_ concern is to insure that this city is safe for my Templars until this mess can be sorted out, a task you already seem ill fit for."

Grand Cleric Elthina patted the air softly between herself and Meredith in an attempt to ease the tension that was now thick enough to begin smothering everyone inside it.

"We need a swift resolution to Ser Josain's...disappearance," she explained as though she were struggling with the word, chewing between it and the option of accepting the man's death. "And the city's order must be restored. I have given Knight-Commander Meredith my blessing to find those responsible and I would ask you to hand over any information you have to her."

Meredith wore the smug look of victory and it was all Aveline could do to keep from punching it from her face.

"The non-mages of Kirkwall," she started slowly in an attempt to carefully choose her words, "must go free of harassment unless you can _prove_ they were involved. I need your word on this, Knight-Commander."

Meredith opened her mouth to speak, but Elthina beat her to the point. "This is a fair compromise," she conceded before looking sternly at the Knight-Commander. "Times have been delicate since the death of Viscount Threnhold, made worse by the death of Dumar. We do not want to suggest that the Chantry, any part of the Chantry, means to replace Qunari occupation with Templar."

A long moment of hot silence existed then between all of them, as though all three were playing a desperate game of chicken, wondering who would jump first. Finally it was Meredith who was the first to concede with a long sigh and a dismissive wave of her hand.

"So be it," she said curtly, perhaps too curtly as her expression showed an immediate apology. "We shall execute this investigation with an eye to your grace's wishes."

It took all of Aveline's courage to muster her words, but with the silence returning she took in a long breath and forced herself to speak. "What do you mean to do?"

Meredith scoffed. "I mean to take that mage friend of yours and put him to the rack. I have already promised as much. I know full well why you are protecting him and Maker's blessing be upon the Champion, but even the wisest can be blind to plots within their own circles."

Aveline tightened her clenched fists and looked back at the Grand Cleric, her face etched with desperation. Elthina looked down sadly for a moment, then back up at Aveline, her face long and filled with sorrow.

"I pray that you will speak to your friend," Elthina urged, "and if he truly can help us in this investigation he might make it that much easier on himself and whoever he may be hiding."


	22. Chapter 21 - A Dalish Cairne

Stress alone had seemed to be the finest cure for a hangover that Hawke had ever encountered. From the moment Varric had uttered the source of Meredith's lottery money the burn in his stomach and the ache in his head had completely disappeared, leaving only a deep sense of urgency. The streets of Kirkwall were all but empty with most people either spying the grisly scene on the docks or tucking themselves away inside their homes against the whispers of a gang war about to erupt.

Hawke's mind was split. Though he had left Fenris at the Hanged Man the night before he could not vouch that the Elf remained there. A hum of confidence had hung over Fenris in a way that Hawke had never seen. His contempt for Horacious was nearly a tangible thing that Hawke could reach out and touch, but for all the Tevinter's words and barbarity it seemed as though Fenris genuinely believed him. Had he taken that confidence to mean he could return to Danarius's mansion? Or had he done as Hawke had and celebrated the night with a bottle, waking up reeking of piss in some gutter?

He frowned at that thought as he reached the door to the Hanged Man, taking a moment to look upon the upside down knight that swung from the tavern's ceiling that gave the place its name. A grim joke on the after effects of alcohol seemed all too morbidly close to home in the wake of the morning's events, he thought as he pushed the door open. With a start he stepped inside, calling out, "Fenris?" To no immediate answer. A quick glance around the bar did not reveal him either.

Without paying any heed to any of the other patrons or the barkeep he skipped steps up the stairway to Isabela's room, pounding it with his fist. "Fenris?" he repeated between knocks. Without thinking to ask permission he put a hand to the doorknob and tried to force his way in, only to find that it was locked. "If you're in there we need to talk, now."

There was no sound, no answer from the other side and Hawke swore. He returned downstairs where the Barkeep was looking at him as though he'd killed a man on the tavern floor, palms pressed against the bartop.

"The serrah isn't here, messere," the barkeep explained, "left early this morn. And fore you ask he didn't say where."

Hawke cursed again. "If he comes back here tell him I need to speak to him urgently."

The barkeep stared at Hawke's poin curse expectantly for a long moment, but when the Champion showed no signs of reaching into it for another bribe he rolled his eyes and began to dramatically polish a glass. "What were the days when I was but a barkeep and not a high born's messenger."

Hawke dismissed his comment and made his way for the door, stopping only when he heard Merrill's soft voice suddenly calling him from across the room. He stopped and spun to face her, realizing only then that he had completely overlooked that she was there in his search for Fenris.

"Hawke!" she exclaimed excitedly, patting the seat in her booth and bidding him to come over. Hawke looked over his shoulder at the door, but decided that a greeting was in order first. Besides, he thought, Fenris could always walk in at any moment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he slid into the booth across from her, still attentively glancing at the door, hopefully.

Merrill shrugged and looked down at the tankard in front of her. "I was hoping Isabela was here. I was going to talk to her. It's not good to be in the Alienage right now."

"When is it ever good?" Hawke japed. "What's wrong Merrill?"

"Templars," she said sheepishly, "I think they're mad about something. They were asking a lot of questions. I didn't want to be there. And I didn't want to answer any questions about the Eluvian."

Hawke shuddered at the thought of Meredith's men finding the broken mirror in Merrill's home. Anders was difficult enough to explain let alone protect, he could not imagine the impossibility that would be trying to add Merrill's dabbles in blood magic to the list.

"What are Templars doing in the Alienage?"

"I think it has to do with the prayer we were saying last week. I didn't hear much, just that they wanted to know why we had a mourning shrine." Merrill was doing her best to stay perked, but there was a very certain and obvious fear that hung in her dark eyes. The tattoos across her face only seemed to augment whatever emotion she was currently feeling.

Hawke leaned forward, a golden eyebrow raised. "Who were you mourning, Merrill?"

"I don't know," she sounded defeated. "No one tells me things. They just showed me the grave. Like I told Isabela I left one of my lottery tickets there. You know, to be nice."

Hawke felt the breath sap from his lungs, his eyes widening at the revelation. "Do you remember where the grave is?"

"Yes," Merrill chirped happily, "it's near the Dalish camp on the Sundermount. I can take you, if you want. I don't want to be in the city right now. I heard about what happened on the docks. They're saying there's going to be a fight."

Maybe so, Hawke thought to himself, but between who?

"I want you to take me there."

"To the docks?" Merrill queried eliciting a frustrated sigh from Hawke.

"No, to the grave."

"Oh! I can do that." She leaned over and spoke to the barkeep. "Since you're already helping Hawke, if Isabela comes back can you tell her I was here? Thank you."

"Andraste be good," the barkeep roared, throwing his hands in the air.

Merrill leaned in close. "He hasn't been very happy lately."

At Hawke's urging she led him out of the Hanged Man, beyond the gates of Kirkwall. The city guards had been replaced by Templars, but even they did little more than nod their heads to the Champion as he passed. It was an odd and foreboding thing to see them and their silver coated armor where there should have been the hauberks and half helms of Aveline's men. It felt as though the noose was being tightened upon the city, but who was the hangman, Hawke wondered.

The trek past the Wounded Coast was an uneventful one, a concept that was still foreign to Hawke. Only a year ago every manner of pirate and renegade Qunari had used the graveyard of ships to wage a war of profit on any that dared to pass to the Sundermount, though in a way that had seemed to make things easier for many people. Few Elves from the Alienage dared to try to reach out to the Dalish for fear of being poached during the journey and even less sought out a new life within Kirkwall's false promises of opportunity.

Now the coast line seemed almost barren, even many of the ships brought in from the storms that had sunk the Qunari fleet had either been picked clean by scavengers or simply dragged away by the unstoppable arm of the tide. Now, though, there was much more open space with the slight promise of a safe passage. Gone were the days of the Wounded Coast looking the part of a war zone, but it remained an often perilous journey with marauders lurking behind unturned rocks simply waiting for the chance at a prize of merchants.

At the far end of the coastline the great mountains of the Sundermount peeled away any semblence of a craigy beachhead, with an octopus of spiraling, ill kempt roads jutting in every direction. By now Hawke knew the path to the Dalish hunting grounds as well as he did to the Hanged Man, but wise as they were and no strangers to persecution they maintained an elaborate system of movements to insure their safety. It seemed all the wiser now with tensions running high in Kirkwall. With heads mounted atop a ship's bow it took only one fool's tongue to turn an angry mob against the wildland Elves.

Merrill led him to the edge of their most recent camp, which was tucked into a valley of grass and low hanging trees that were still struggling to survive in the salty air. Even at this distance Hawke could feel the glowers of Merrill's people, could almost hear the scoffs on their breath as they saw her from afar. If he could feel it he knew she could too.

"If you want to wait here," he started, winning a nod.

"It would be best. The Keeper knows where it is, just on the other side of the camp, up the road aways."

"Thank you, Merrill." Hawke approached, earning more approving stares with each step that took him further away from the Elf that they all but branded heretic. It was a sad fate, he thought, to flee in exile from a people on the run, into an Alienage meant to keep her away from the rest of the city. It was a miserable existence she was living.

The Dalish parted for Hawke, none offering him so much as a word, only keeping long eyes upon him. The Keeper was where she had always been in these camps, near the center next to a long fire so that she could be approached equally from every side. She was poking at the low lit blaze with a stick, churning embers before tossing the thing in, causing the fire to erupt a little brighter.

Without even turning the grey skinned Keeper spoke. "I knew you would come Hawke," she said sadly, "sooner or later."

"How?" Hawke was in no mood for more guessing games and the headache from his previous night's affair was beginning to set in again.

The Keeper brushed her hands together to pat away the dust. "Just like your Mage friend before you, you came to see the grave. I would rather the Alienage had not gotten us involved in all this, but I would never turn down a slain soul in need of blessing." At last Keeper Marethari turned to face Hawke, her expression long, heavy, full of pain. She was a wizened old woman, carrying with her the same dignity of Grand Cleric Elthina, but her wisdom tempered by the experience of harsh living and a need to flee her home. Her hands were full of callouses from years of labor on the retreat. Even their ancient Keeper was forced to swing the plough among the Dalish.

"What did you talk to Anders about?" Hawke pressed, caught somewhere between anger and desperation. He could feel an end, an explanation so perilously close that he could reach out and touch it, but only with Marethari's help.

"We found him while he was on an expedition to the Sundermount. For what purpose I do not know. But I had asked him about the blessings and traditions that would best fit a man of esteem among the Chantry." The words seemed to pain Marethari as she spoke them, her eyes drawing to the ground. "I am ashamed to admit we could not honor all of his wishes. But if the spirits are good, perhaps they will see our intent, if not our actions." Marethari crouched down next to the fire and picked up a bag, bringing it to Hawke. "These were the slain man's possessions. All but his sword, your friend insisted he take that."

Hawke took the bag and untied the strings binding it. Inside were a mess of personal effects of no great interest to him at first glance. "How did the slain man come to you?"

"Many at the Alienage saw the body. They knew at once he was a Templar. He had been beaten very badly and they tried their best to nurse his wounds. They brought him to me in the hopes that I could save him, but he was too far gone at that point." Marethari heaved her shoulders in a long, sad shrug. "As I understand your Chantry laws I would be considered just as guilty in his death, but I gave him a balm laced with nightshade, knowing there was no hope he would live more than a day in terrible agony. We buried him up the hill there."

"With all due respect," Hawke said, re-sealing the bag, "why do a bunch of city Elves care what happens to a Templar?"

"There are many reasons, I suspect they were two fold as are so many things," Marethari explained as she took a seat next to the fire, placing her hands close for warmth. The air in the mountains was cold at night, it was where the chilliest of the wind brought in by the sea came and got trapped, greedily refusing to pour any back down onto the city. "Surely some genuinely wanted to help him. Others probably wanted to hide the body. What Templar would believe that a group of Elves had a good reason to be found with a dead member of their order? It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. Go and see for yourself."

"Thank you, Keeper," Hawke said genuinely with a bow of his head.

"I only hope what kindness I offered him will not be a doom for my people."

The climb up the hill was a short one, made easier by an old Tevinter road made of age worn stone. The trees cleared away to make a small meadow, their trunks bent under the wind but looking as though they were hanging their heads in mourning. In the center of the field of grass was a cairn of stones roughly two feet high, with the unmistakable helm of a Templar resting atop a stick that had been jammed into the earth as a crude headstone. At the base of the cairn was a bowl full of dozens of small tributes such as beads, dead flowers, and among them Merrill's lottery ticket.

The air felt heavy as Hawke looked at the grave of Ser Josain, the only proof that he had ever been alive the helm above his cairn and the rage that simmered through the city of Kirkwall. Until this moment Ser Josain had been nothing more than a name with an insulting moniker attached to it, but at that moment, with the sky becoming dark with the sun's descent and the sea air brushing at Hawkes cloak, the slain Templar seemed all too human.

It was a heavy, depressing moment for Hawke. He knelt down at the side of the pile of rocks, shaking his head at the futility of it all. He opened the bag in his hands, suddenly wanting to learn more about the bones that rested next to him.

Many of the items were useless to Hawke: a carving knife etched with the heraldry of his family, a mark of decree from the Chantry that protected him against petty legal offenses while operating his duty. The more he dug, however, the more a picture of Josain could be painted in Hawke's mind. Festered, rotted dates were kept in a small jar, probably smelling something awful if the lid were removed. A small, pocket sized book entitled _Ser Edmund and the Bear_ indicated that the man at least enjoyed the old tales of chivalry, even in spite of his reputation for cowardice.

Hawke dug further into the satchel until he found his fingers rippling a piece of paper. Curiously he plucked the thing out. It bore the broken wax seal of Knight-Commander Meredith, causing him to raise an eyebrow as he smoothened the creases and read the thing from the top. As he did so his eyes widened in horror.

_It is of highest priority that these funds make it to the Circle at the absolute soonest, with discretion as your key. The way is made clear to you, be distracted by nothing, worry about nothing, not even a babe plucked from her mother's breast before your very eyes. Your only mission is to deliver these sovereigns to the Circle _at once_. Ser Akton will meet you at the foot of the Gallows to insure your further safe passage._

_-M_

Hawke crumbled the paper in his fist as his blood began to boil in anger. The pieces all started to collect in his mind as he shoved it back into the satchel, reaching one more time until his fingers ran across what felt like a burlap sack. He pulled the thing out and looked at it with disgust. A money bag bearing the sigil of the Templar Order, large enough, Hawke guessed, to hold three thousand golden sovereigns.


	23. Chapter 22 - Questions

Varric did not remember passing out. He remembered a cold, steel dirk at his throat and a hand about his mouth, he remembered biting, spitting, and kicking his short legs in a desperate attempt to wrench free, he remembered only silence from his attacker, but he did not remember passing out. Therefore when he awakened, groggily with heavy lids, it came as a surprise to him that he was tied to a chair and clearly nowhere near Lowtown.

He took a moment to scan his surroundings, but it was difficult to discern anything in the low light of the room. The walls seemed to be made of simple stone, not even polished for consistency, simply jabbed or cracked into the sides of whatever room he was in, with a wooden floor to spite the rats. He jerked a few times to test the hold of the ropes that bound him to his chair, but found that they were tied with the skill of a sailor's hands. A small candle on the far end of the room was his only light, and had he not been bound so tightly he would have leapt out of his chair, and possibly his skin, when he saw a frail bald man sitting across from him.

"Who are you?" Varric gasped, his throat dry, the words scratching as they passed through to his mouth. "What do you want?"

The man across the way only watched, looking the part of a skeletal figure with multicolored robes thrown haphazardly about his tiny frame. Without saying a word he rose to his feet and plucked the candle off the table next to him, then turned and climbed a set of stairs, leaving Varric alone.

"What the hell is this?" Varric roared after swallowing in an attempt to add some sort of moisture to his parched throat. "What do you want? Get back down here you skinny bastard!"

Only echoes greeted him for several minutes. He tried a few more times to rock the chair, once again testing the limits of his bonds and finding that he could not begin to reach them. With a long sigh he leaned back, trying to find a comfortable position. For a moment he thought he might drift off back to sleep, until he heard footsteps on the stairs again, heavy ones that seemed to bend the wood beneath the feet atop them.

Varric looked up, squinting against the darkness. "Who's there?" he demanded.

All at once the room was bathed in an orange glow as a man so fat he seemed ready to burst at the seams appeared, torch in hand. He had a funny, pointed beard, and what hair was still crowning his head had streaks of blue in it. He had long, elaborate robes of whites and golds, with a stone tower of a man following after him, an enormous claymore strapped to his back.

The fat man plucked up the chair that the skinny man had vacated and dragged it close to Varric, so that they were only a belly's gerth apart. He handed the torch to the armored brute behind him, then placed his hands on his knees. For a long while the robed man only watched.

"Who the hell are you?" Varric asked, struggling for air against his binds. He shifted a bit to try to relax himself before a panic would set in.

"I am Horacious," the fat man said in a thick Tevinter accent, the words rolling off the tongue with difficulty, as though Common were a third language. "I apologize for these...bindings and the rough manner I have invited you to my home, but the walls of Kirkwall have eyes, yes? And I would not that you were caught in all this...ugliness. Besides...I do not know if you are a friend or an enemy yet. So we must find out."

Varric snorted. "I don't even know what the hell a Horacious is, much less how to befriend one."

The man who called himself Horacious smiled softly and nodded, but there was no mirth or joy to his voice, only a cold, calculating brutality that set Varric even more on edge. "Just so," he said solemnly before leaning back into his chair, causing it to creak painfully under his weight. "I will ask you questions. This is how we will find out if you are my friend. If you lie to me," he gestured toward the giant behind him, "Titus will take a finger for each lie. If we are truthful with each other, well, then I have nothing but apologies, a feast, and any number of fine servants awaiting you."

"How did you knock me out?" Varric interrupted, looking up at the man called Titus, who he assumed as the brute that had abducted him. "My head doesn't hurt, but my throat is dryer than a cleric's cunt."

Horacious laughed then, a proud, heavy fit of a laugh that rocked the walls. "He is brave man," Horacious insisted, looking at Titus. "I have him bound, I threaten to cut off his fingers, and he says nothing but jokes and questions." He swung his look back at Varric, causing the skin of his face to swing with him. "I like you. I hope we can be friends. It would pain me so to hurt you, not as much as you, but it would pain me. It would pain me even more, I think, to lose the friendship of the Champion."

"Hawke?" Varric gasped. "What, I..."

Horacious ignored him, instead reaching into his robe to pluck out a vial that contained a clear liquid. "Though only an amateur, I have a hobby as an apothecary," he explained, gesturing toward the vial with his free hand. "This is a particularly robust tonic that I gave to Titus. I should say if I were to drop it we would all be sleeping likes babes, yes?" He tucked the thing back into his robes. He then reached forward and put one of his enormous elephant's feet of a hand onto Varric's knee. "I say with sincerity I wish you no harm. If I could do this another way, it would be just so. But I am afraid I am at the end of my hour glass. The last grain begins to fall and with it go my options. You understand, yes?"

"If you're going to interrogate me," Varric spat angrily, leaning into the ropes that held him, "then start asking something or start cutting fingers."

Horacious nodded again. "Just so." He pulled the enormous hand away and folded it with the other, resting atop his belly once more. "You are aware of Ser Josain, yes?"

Varric nodded, unwilling to give the man the pleasure of a spoken answer.

"I will make this simple then, yes? I have been to his grave. I know he is dead, there is no reason to offer pretense to me. I think your fingers would agree. Do you know what he was carrying?"

Varric shook his head.

"No?" Horacious asked, feigning surprise. He leaned forward and put his hands on his own knees. "Why do I trust this?"

"Why would I give a shit what some dead Templar is carrying?"

Horacious narrowed his eyes, widening his bushy eyebrows as he examined the Dwarf.

"Just so," he said with another bob of his head. Varric was beginning to hate those two words. "Your brothers do not seem to think the way you do, yes?"

"My...what are you talking about?"

Horacious looked back at Titus behind him and for a moment Varric winced, feeling an ache at the base of his fingers, where he felt maybe he was spending his last night with one of them.

"We won't be needing you," Horacious said suddenly, winning him a nod from from the lumbering warrior behind him who then stepped forward and undid the knots that held Varric in place. All at once the ropes fell to the floor, the Dwarf was free, and air flowed freely back into his lungs.

He sat there, confused, staring at Horacious as he rubbed at the burns that the ropes had left in his arms. "That's it?" he asked, confused. Horacious gave a cheerful nod, his entire demeanor changing with it, suddenly looking more like a proud, lumbering oaf than the deathly serious interrogator he had been only moments before. "That was the easiest interrogation I've ever had."

"Just so," the fat man agreed happily, rising to his feet. "I am a man of my word, yes? Come, upstairs. As I promised, I have dinner waiting, with all my apologies. And please, take your pick of my girls, any of them will be yours for the night, or the week, it is your choice."

Suspicion continued to creep through Varric and instead he offered his palms as he shook his head. "That's alright," he said, "I have all my fingers so...no harm no foul. I think I should just get going."

"If this is your wish," Horacious said with a gracious bow, "then just so."

Just then, with the imminent danger suddenly having faded did Varric realized that Bianca was not hanging from his arm and a look around the room showed that it was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's my crossbow?" he said suddenly, anger lacing into his tone. Horacious was slow to speak and he repeated himself. "Where's Bianca?"

The fat man gestured him upstairs, "Nothing has been taken from you," he promised, "all awaits at the door. A coward's weapon, or so Titus tells me. Cicero will have it for you as you leave." Varric frowned at him. "You still do not trust me, yes? I understand, but that we could have met under different circumstances." He clapped his hands together. "I will walk you out, as good will."

The man waited for no invitation from Varric before climbing the stairs out of the room and after a brief glance upward as though to the Maker the Dwarf sighed and followed after him. Only then did he realize that he had been a prisoner inside a mansion that could have rivaled Hawke's, with elaborate tapestries and banners depicting horses and great battles adorning every wall.

The slave girls Horacious had mentioned darted by on their tasks, eyes obediently on the ground, knowing their path through the house on instinct rather than having to be guided by sight. The fat man continued to wave his hand to Varric, insisting that he follow, but a life of dealing with backstabbers and cutthroats made his back itch with every step. It was the longest walk of his life, every one of his footfalls on the marble floor feeling as though it would trigger some trap, every passing servant leaving Varric wondering if they were the one that would slip a dagger between his ribs.

The bony slave with the shaved head was waiting at the door as promised, offering up Bianca. Varric snatched it from his hands forcefully, turning a glare on both men waiting at the door, finding disgust in the blank stare of the bald man and contempt in the twisted smile of the plump Horacious.

"You realize I am going to tell Hawke about all this," Varric warned angrily.

Horacious nodded. "Just so," he clucked. "I keep no secrets. Unlike those brothers of yours. To keep secrets even from you...there is no loyalty outside Tevinter, I swear it." He thought for a moment, then laughed to himself. "But so, there is no loyalty _in_ Tevinter either, my what is Thedas coming to?"

"Right..." Varic said suspiciously. "Can I go now?"

"But of course," Horacious beamed before opening the door himself. "You are free to return anytime for my full hospitality."

Varric did not plan to take him up on that offer, instead carefully watching the fat man and his slave as he slowly backed out of the door, then a hundred more paces, before disappearing into the night.


	24. Chapter 23 - Vengeance

By the time Hawke had returned to Kirkwall most of the city had settled down from the excitement of the early morning, though the streets still remained bare. Whispers of a gang war carried far more potent than the truth of a vengeful Tevinter seeking his own brand of vigilante justice. Not that he anyone would ever learn the truth, he supposed. At every turn he had underestimated Horacious and the titan that he lumbered around with him and now over a dozen heads mounted on spikes were the only answers he had to the thousands of questions he desperately needed to resolve.

His thoughts had turned away from Fenris as he descended the mountain and approached the walled sea of lights that was Kirkwall, turning his mind to Anders, to their meeting at his Clinic. Merrill had been blessedly silent for the duration of the journey. Whether she was feeling low for being so close to the people that had rejected her or she simply understood and appreciated the gravity of the visit to the grave he did not know, but he was too intently focused on Anders to ask her.

The Templars manning the gate eyed him curiously, their looks drawn to the satchel that once belonged to Ser Josain, though if they recognized it they said nothing. He would suffer no arguments from them and the confident, determined stride with which he walked told them as much.

When they reached the inner junction of the city Merrill had bid her goodbyes, insisting that she was going to check the Hanged Man one more time for Isabela before returning home. The woman's location would have been a curiosity to Hawke at any other time as well, having slipped out before he had been awakened by Varric and disappearing like a cat with the door left open. It was her way, he knew, and the previous night had instilled him with the confidence to trust in her return later. Though his mind did not wander to her current location he found himself glad that she had visited him, laid with him again, easing his mind for the confrontation that was certainly about to unfold.

He returned home only briefly. Despite Bodahn's sincere attempts at being helpful Hawke was beyond that point, could hardly hear the butler's promises of dinner or insistence that he assist in the man's suiting. Hawke was deaf to the world as he stepped into his plate armor and fastened the sword at his waist. He obliged Bodahn only be retrieving the sandwich that he had implored Hawke eat.

"Wherever you're goin', Messere, armor ain't gonna' help ya' if your stomach's an empty fright," Bodahn had insisted, offering the meal insistantly.

Hawke took it with him, devouring it in only a handful of bites as he marched across the city, satchel still slung over his shoulder. He descended once more into Lowtown, then into the rotten depths of Darktown. He was caught by surprise to see even at some of the less known entrances to the under slums Templars were posted, looking conspicuously out of place with their well maintained armor in a dank cavern of mud and rot. Down here they eyed Hawke more suspiciously than the guards that had manned the gates, where his status as Champion was as mute a claim as the denizens' hopes for dignity and food.

The first of the Templars he passed offered merely a growl, at best a guttural, "Champion?" to which Hawke did not bother to answer. But as he descended deeper he encountered his first true challenge.

A pair of Templars whose identities were indiscernable under their helms caught Hawke as he tried to wing around to the path to Anders's clinic. At first he thought that they were merely trying to inspect him, but when one raised a mailed hand to his chest, stopping him in his tracks, Hawke turned an angry scowl on the both of them.

"What are you doing in Darktown, Champion?" the one touching him demanded, his voice leaving little room for counter questions.

"My business is my own. Let me pass or Meredith will know the reason why."

"Down here on the Knight-Commander's orders," the Templar insisted forcefully, his voice polished with a practiced authority, "if you're harboring that Mage or mean to speak with him we'll haul you off to the Gallows."

"If Meredith would have me dragged off to the Gallows then by all means have her come down here and do it herself," Hawke barked back, jerking away from the Templar's touch. Hands fell to swords in that moment, but Hawke's remained firmly at his side. "I'm not going to ask you to get out of my way."

The three remained in a tense stand off for several long moments, Hawke half expecting them to finally draw their swords. Finally the one that seemed to be in command let go of his hilt and hissed under his breath.

"We'll be watching you, Champion," he warned, to which Hawke only shrugged.

"When aren't you?" Hawke pushed past them, refusing to spare them even another glance.

The approach to Anders's clinic saw a swell of Templars and even from a distance it became obvious that Anders was not there. They were here looking for him, the man had spent too many years involved in the Mage underground to be foolish enough to simply be taken where he slept. It brought a growl to Hawke's lips. Another dead end, another missing companion, he thought to himself.

"Hsst," he heard suddenly, a sound almost too quiet, too faint to make out, coming from a level below him. Hawke looked down to where the road he travelled dipped like a cliff, leading into the sewers beneath Darktown. Though covered in robes with a hood slipped around his head it was indisputably Anders, his eyes glowing softly as though to indicate it was him. He simply mouthed "the sewer" and gestured toward one of the many entrances that were too numerous for the Templars to know exist. Even if they did, Hawke thought, they were likely disgusted enough to sully their boots in Darktown, it would take an act of the Maker to push them into the sewers themselves.

When he was certain no one was looking, Hawke slipped through the passage and down small stone steps, built so tight that he wasn't entirely sure he could fit. It was obviously built with a slender, underfed Elf's frame in mind. The Tevinter slave masters of old likely had even less interest than the Templars in walking through the refuse below.

He spied Anders's cloak spin as he disappeared down one of the pathways and Hawke followed after, his boots squishing disgusting mud and Maker knew what else as he followed. Anders remained far ahead of him, leaving only the slightest of clues with a glance back or a swirl of his cloak as to the direction he was going.

After what felt like an eternity of crawling through the stench he finally found Anders sitting atop a crate, nearly invisible in the lightless tunnels, along with everything else bathed in darkness. Hawke approached slowly, the hand holding Ser Josain's satchel trembling as he tried to prepare his words.

"The Templars are looking for me, you know," Anders explained as his friend approached, "they don't know Darktown like I do. They hate it here. They'll destroy most of my tonics, probably steal most of my herbs, then they'll simply leave. Ironic, really, that the safest place to hide from them is right under their noses." He looked upward toward the ceiling, as though he could see the Templars patrolling above.

"Tell that to Bethany," Hawke spit angrily. "Tell me you at least brought Josain's sword with you."

When Anders looked back down at Hawke he wore a frightful look of death, etches on his face glowing like lightning beneath his skin. "Why would I do that?"

"It's over Anders," Hawke said. "You knew."

"Knew?"

He threw the satchel on the ground at Anders's feet. The man regarded it slightly, then looked back up at Hawke, the spark disappearing from his eyes and a sadness replacing the grim look of determination he had only moments before.

"You _knew_ Josain had the lottery money," Hawke insisted, "you're just throwing yourself at Meredith like a martyr. It wasn't a Mage at all was it?"

For the first time since the ordeal began Anders could not force himself to make eye contact with his friend, his brown eyes cast to the ground as he wore what looked like shame.

"Who killed him?"

Anders shrugged. "Some muggers, I presume."

"Why? Why are you throwing yourself on another man's sword? Were you _that_ happy a young boy was clubbed to death in the street?"

Anders leaped to his feet then, closing the distance between the two as his lips peeled in a snarl with an intensity Hawke had never seen in the Mage. "Do not throw such things at my feet," he yelled, his voice shaking. "Do you know what I did when I found his grave? I wept for him. I prayed for him. Whatever sins he may have committed in this life in the service of the Chantry were the poisonous ruin of the misguided. I never wanted this for him. But his death could have meaning, a real meaning. Wouldn't you rather he have that rather than go down as another helpless victim, clubbed for some man's greed in Lowtown?"

"What _meaning_?" Hawke insisted, his own voice echoing off the walls of the sewer, caution having been abandoned with his anger. "So that Meredith can stretch your limbs and parade you around like a broken toy when she's done with you?" Anders shook his head and returned to the crate, but Hawke continued as he turned his back. "Josain's real killers are going to walk away free as birds while you pay for their crimes. That's not justice."

The words seemed to hurt Anders all the more. "I know," he said softly before looking back up at Hawke. "But it _is_ vengeance."

Hawke felt his entire body chill to the bone, but he refused to relent. "Why Anders? What do you get out of this?"

"Don't you see?" Anders implored. "Meredith gambled with her head that she could fix everything in this damn city, her ruinous economic policies, the people pushed to the breaking point, the isolation of Kirkwall, by starting a contest with someone else's money. A _Tevinter's_ money. As long as she was chasing a Mage and not the real culprit she was never going to find it. And after speaking to the Elikdos they had sent to cover their investment, well," Anders scoffed, "I knew there was no way Meredith was going to dig herself out of this grave. And who knows, maybe inspired by the efforts of a few phantom mages that don't exist, another one would find the courage to stand up for himself when a Templar decides to force himself upon him or her."

Hawke found himself at a loss for words as he closed the jaw that hung agape. He shook his head several times as he backed away from his friend. "That's all this is," he said, "an elaborate plot to get Meredith out of power?"

"Elthina is a good woman," Anders said, "she is weak, but a good woman. With a new Knight-Commander, a more reasonable one, not prone to the finnicky bursts of murderous outrage and paranoia like Meredith, who knows what the two can do for the Circle."

"This madness _has_ to stop."

Anders did not answer immediately, once again looking away, struggling to look at his friend.

"Ser Josain died tragically for another man's greed," he said softly at last, "I could have given him vengeance."

Hawke simply shook his head as he reached down and scooped up the satchel he had thrown in front of Anders. The man seemed hollow then, conflicted, his words did not ring with any truth or conviction. When Anders spoke his heart he injected a dramatic certainty that almost compelled even Hawke to follow him, but each rationale, each explanation seemed like another man's words, spoken without life at the point of knife.

Hawke left him alone like that, continuing to shake his head as he walked away, back into the twisting labyrinth of Kirkwall's sewers. As he walked away he heard Anders repeat himself meekly, "Vengeance."


	25. Chapter 24 - A Flock of Dwarves

Aside from the ropes Varric was forced to admit that his time spent with Horacious had not been all that bad. His own brother had done worse on the Deep Roads, he thought, and yet the chilling encounter with the fat Tevinter had shaken Varric to his very core, imparting a paranoia that shadowed his every step. When he had returned to the Hanged Man he eyed each patron nervously, then checked and double checked the door to see if the enormous man with the tattoo on his face was following in after him.

He had hardly even realized that he was still clutching Bianca, his finger twitching against the trigger until he noticed that all eyes in the tavern were upon him, looking at the Dwarf as though he were a desperate mad man. Could he blame him?

That night he had slept fitfully. What was it about the Tevinter that had unnerved him so? Varric had always been capable of sizing people up in a glance and knowing exactly what cards they were holding. To serenade their secrets from them may take time, but he had grown comfortable being able to guess what side of the line a person stood on within seconds. Somehow, Varric thought as he lay restlessly in bed, he would have felt better about the entire altercation if he had received some sort of beating for his troubles. The pot bellied man had spoken of Hawke as a friend, adding to the myriad of riddles that were pouring through his mind.

The next day he felt better. Not his old self, he realized, but to have made it through the night without a red smile imbued him with a sense of his old confidence as he wheeled the shelf away from the door, a crude barricade that in hindsight would have done nothing to stop Titus.

That must have been the man who killed the crew of the _Nautilus_, Varric thought to himself, trying to put the pieces together in his head as he ran through the interrogation several times in his mind. He had spoken of Varric's "brothers" in the same breath as the slain Templar, leaving a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of the association. It did not take a marathon of thought to realize just who precisely Horacious was hinting at.

Varric's throat was still dry, feeling like cotton from Horacious's potion. He ordered a water from the barkeep, who eyed him with amusement as he slid it across the bartop.

"A water for messere?" he joked, his voice full of mockery.

"For now," Varric said, swallowing the fetid, warm liquid, though his throat sang like larks at the touch of the water. "Get me a beer while you're at it. A cold one if you have it."

"If but I could, messere," the barkeep said sadly as he popped open a keg behind the bar and poured one of Varric's favorite stouts. Varric grumbled as he drank it, leaving a few silver crowns before heaving himself away from the bar and leaving the Hanged Man.

Despite the fear that had swept through Lowtown on the day of the murders the gangs had shown no signs of themselves and the men and women there had decided to return to their lives, if with an air of caution about them. The well to dos of Hightown were likely still shitting their loins at the thought, but no one in the slums of Kirkwall shied away from the sight of a little blood.

At the far end of Lowtown, tucked away between a decrepit tavern of no great repute and an abandoned shack was a discreet door tucked into the wall. At a glance it looked more like an ornament hanging on the wall, perhaps an abandoned part of some long destroyed building meant to patch up a hole at very little expense. A closer inspection would reveal that it was fully functional, however, and was even well maintained on the other side with a strong, metal lock, to which Varric had the key.

It was a perfect example of hiding in plain sight, though he still wasn't sure why that was necessary. Another attempt, Varric reasoned, of the Dwarven merchants trying desperately to pass themselves off as Carta bosses, doing little more than upsetting, sometimes even offending, those that they would mimic.

The door led to a tunnel that dipped under the ground with a guard posted every dozen or so feet. He suspected there was some sort of Dwarven poetry involved in a group of casteless surface dwellers returning beneath the earth to hold their meetings, but Varric thought it was a load of horse shit. The guards regarded him with a passing interest until he reached the end of the hall, where the armored warrior for hire stuck out his hand expectantly, no doubt for Bianca.

"Not today sweet cheeks," he warned the guard, his tone laced with sarcasm but filled with venom. The Dwarf leaned forward, intending to threaten Varric, but a sudden jerk, unslinging Bianca from his shoulder and aiming one of the bolts dangerously at the guard's eyes was enough to cause a sudden pause in his movements. "I said not today."

Varric was in no mood to be trifled with and the guard became wise enough to back away, palms up in a sign of surrender. Nodding, Varric pushed open the door and kicked it shut behind him, all eyes on the council that sat about their table upon him, wide and confused. He paid them no heed as he slung Bianca once more around his shoulder, his paces a confident strut as he walked up to the empty chair reserved for House Tethras and sliding it away with a loud creak of its metal against the stone floor. Unceremoniously he plopped down into it then reached across the table for some grapes, throwing them into his mouth without so much as a word.

Baric was the first to break their stunned silence with what was no doubt intended to be a stinging barb. "Twice now!" he howled, slapping his palm across the table. "Two meetings in a row a Tethras has sat at this table! Someone summon the master of records to note this!" One or two of the other Dwarves added their voices to laughter, but Varric noted angrily that Hestor and Uthras were not among them.

"What brings you here, Varric?" Hestor, ever the leader of the upstarts, asked poignantly.

Varric enjoyed the grapes and decided he would take another one. "The most curious thing happened to me yesterday," he said between bites, occasionally letting the spittle of grape juice fly from his lips in a sheer sign of contempt. "I was abducted by a Tevinter slave hunter that seemed _incredibly_ curious about the dead Templar. All the while I walked here I asked myself, why in Andraste's name would a Tevinter bounty hunter give a shit about me?"

He delighted when he saw Hestor's color slip from his face, the Dwarf's blood visibly running cold. Varric took his time between words, leaning forward and plucking the jug of wine that was near Uthras and uncorking it. Rather than pour it into his goblet he swallowed a long gulp to wash down the drapes.

Finally Uthras cracked. "What did you tell this Tevinter?" he asked, stroking his dyed beard.

Varric took another swig, then let out a long, content sigh. He pounded his chest then belched. "What did I tell him indeed," he said, his voice full of mockery. "Oh, that's right. I could tell him nothing, precisely what this council here tells me."

Hestor had had enough. He slammed a balled fist against the tale top, sending the dishes and cups clammering as though they'd been struck by an earthquake. "We would hear everything you and this Tevinter discussed."

"Interesting, that," Varric said. He looked down at the bottle, a wry smile peeling his lips, spinning it around and watching the red contents swirl like a vortex. "I guess Uthras isn't hosting this particular meeting. This tastes like an Anderfel vintage. Probably a good year too. What were you celebrating?"

"This isn't a _game_," Uthras finally burst, throwing himself from his seat. "What did you two discuss?"

Varric slammed the bottle down angrily, half surprised that it did not shatter against the stone table top. "Don't lecture me on games, you horse's ass," he spit, "what did you all do with the lottery?"

The entire table burst into a chorus of arguments and Varric swore a few of them were ready to come to blows, grabbing one another's collars and jerking at their comrades like it was a bar brawl. Hestor called for calm before reaching down to his belt, plucking a sheepskin bag from it and throwing it across the table in Varric's direction. Varric eyed it curiously.

"What's this?"

"Your share and more," Hestor insisted, "we _must_ know what this Tevinter knows if we are to act to countermand the damage that has already occurred."

Varric shrugged. "I don't even know what _you've_ done, to be perfectly frank with you all." Feeling smug and confident, he took the bottle of wine again and took another sip. "It's so strange that none of you trust me enough to just...tell me."

"Your conclusions are true," Hestor finally said at length with a long sigh. "Our contacts at the dock knew precisely what the Templar was carrying. Three thousand golden sovereigns. The Tevinters would solve their feud with the Knight-Commander and we would cease sinking like a ship in a storm due to _her_ mistakes." Varric had never seen the Dwarf so rattled, he was now visibly trembling.

"How did you do it?" Varric asked. "I'm so curious how you got him to abandon so simple a job as to just walk from the docks to the Gallows and not die in between."

"Templars are a stupid lot," Hestor explained, "they can't resist someone pretending to be a mage."

"Sad," Varric said as he rose from his chair, keeping the bottle of wine with him. "Really sad." When he turned his back to the council he could hear each of them jump to their feet.

"What do you mean to do?" Hestor asked, eyeing the conspicuously abandoned bag.

"Nothing," Varric said truthfully, "just like the part I played in the Templar's death." He finally turned around to regard them. "But between you and me this guy means business, so I would return the money if I were the lot of you. Who knows, maybe he'll just take your eyes."

Varric had nothing further to say to any of them, despite their demands that he stop, demands that he turn around and join his brothers, the brothers that shared nothing with him, that would not have batted a single eye if he had died for their foolish mistakes. His thoughts turned to the bag of gold that Hestor had thrown to him while he walked down the long hallway, occasionally sipping from the delicious Ander wine. To think, he thought to himself, that I would sully myself with bloody money I didn't even earn.


	26. Chapter 25 - The Horse's Hand

Aveline had warned Hawke that things were going to get worse before they got better - if they ever got better at this point. When he had first seen her letter he had thought that she meant to further question him about the incident at the docks, but if such a thing mattered to her at all anymore it did not show in her correspondence. Apparently Meredith had finally lost any semblance of patience and he could understand why. The Knight-Commander was many things, but stupid was not one of them. She knew Horacious was in the city, she knew precisely why Horacious was there, and though she may have genuinely yearned to find Ser Josain's killer it was obvious that the matter needed to be resolved quickly or who knew what an Elikdos of the _Equs_ would resort to.

After the incident with the _Nautilus_, Hawke wasn't sure precisely how Horacious would handle the matter. Was he truly so bold as to send Titus into the Circle and mount her head on a pike as though she were a common slave from times long past? What did Meredith really think happened? Anders had created a convincing situation and Josain's sword being found in his clinic seemed to add to the idea that a Mage had murdered Josain and made off with the money, further adding to the Templar paranoia that was reeking through Kirkwall.

Hawke thought of Bethany then, as he marched through the moonlit streets, pulling his cloak tighter. He had not seen his sister in more than passing in almost two years now and her letters had stopped coming entirely. Was Meredith putting her to the rack as she threatened to do with Anders? Did Bethany even know? What did any Mage of the Circle know? He tried to imagine life inside the confines of a Circle, the first threat in Thedas as far as the Chantry was concerned, but the last to receive any kind of information.

As the Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke had had the privilege of meeting the Circle's First Enchanter, an Elf by the name of Orsino. He had tried to distinguish himself during the confrontation with the Qunari, desperate to prove that the Mages were on the side of the city, whatever Meredith may have thought. But there was a timidity to the man that Hawke did not necessarily feel was unjustified. An Elf and a mage, he thought, the Maker was a cruel, cantankerous bastard to create such a duo. What was he doing now, Hawke wondered. What did he know? What was he telling his Circle? It did not instill confidence in Hawke to think that he was the only shield between Meredith and Bethany.

Templars were now posted at every corner, with only a handful of guards morosely walking the streets, reluctantly bowing their heads to the knights that were looking all the parts of occupiers. Hawke felt uneasy, as though he now reeked with the stench of Anders. He was too close it all. Even his title of Champion did not seem to be enough, feeling as though every Templar stared down at him, seeing right through him, exposing every secret.

Without even realizing it Hawke's feet had led him to Horacious's mansion. In the dark of night, burdened with the knowledge of Ser Josain's secrets, the billowing banner of a horse seemed all that more frightening and intimidating. With each shudder of the fabric it hissed a knowledge of what was to come, and though Hawke could not guess as to Horacious's next move he could not help but feel that it was going to dwarf the massacre of the _Nautilus_. With a deep and heavy sigh, Hawke stepped forward and slammed the gargoyle knocker once more.

Once again the door swung open to reveal the bald headed slave that Hawke had come to identify as Cicero. Rather than a cordial greeting, however, Cicero was all business, marked by a tepid glare. "This is good," he said, "the Master was just about to send me for you."

Hawke narrowed his eyes but did not bother to acknowledge the tiny man, instead pushing past and not bothering to consider the door that was shut behind him. He started his march through the mansion, stopped only when Cicero called to his master.

In the antechamber, Horacious was stepping down a flight of stairs, a cane aiding his descent.

"The Champion," Horacious observed, his normal jovial demeanor sapped and replaced with a grim determination. "We have...much to discuss, yes?" Hawke wasn't so sure about the idea of "much", but he offered a nod all the same. When Horacious reached the bottom of the stares he smashed the cane into the ground and placed both hands atop it, then leaned into it. "We enter the end game, I think."

"Those heads on the docks," Hawke accused, more forcefully than intended, but Horacious clearly took his meaning. He bowed his head in a long nod.

"That was Titus's doing, yes," Horacious explained. "I am a man of my word. They wronged the friend of my friend and for this they lost their heads."

"You are not my friend," Hawke insisted, finding a hint of perhaps misplaced confidence.

"No," Horacious barked back with more force than Hawke knew the fat man could conjure. "You should not cast this aside, yes?" He leaned back and lifted his cane, waving it in a circle. "This entire city, it was better when Tevinter. You do not approve of slavery, yes? But we were not so weak. These Templars..." his face was grim and with the aggressive determination Hawke almost did not notice the morbid amount of skin that clung to him. "These Templars are fools. I spit on them. They know nothing. But perhaps we knew this, yes? Why else would the _Equs_ have sent me."

It was the first acknowledgment that Hawke remembered that the man had been sent by higher powers. He also realized then that this was also the first time that he had not seen the golem Titus standing behind Horacious.

"Where is Titus?" Hawke asked suddenly, worried.

Horacious drove his cane into the marble floor. "Titus is fulfilling obligations." The words carried a burning ember with them that set Hawke on edge. "You visited the grave, yes?"

The question put Hawke on an edge beyond what he had thought possible. How did he know these things?

"You're not interested in the justice of Ser Josain's death," Hawke accused, stepping forward, "you don't give two shits about the man."

At first Horacious was silent, eyeing the Champion, then after several moments offered a long bow of his head. "Just so," he agreed. "Ser Josain means nothing to me as a man. I see many men die. Two of mine died coming to this city. It means nothing. But what Ser Josain carried-,"

"The lottery."

"Just so," Horacious agreed again.

"Who did Meredith borrow it from? The Archon? Is that why you're here?"

For the first time since he had arrived Horacious looked the part of his old self, letting out a boisterious laugh and beginning to pace. "The Archon?" he mused, as though the words themselves were a key to a great joke. "His Majesty should be so upset over three thousand sovereigns, I think not! No, nothing so dramatic. These Templars have borrowed the money from the _Equs_, and I mean to insure that we receive our debt."

"And what if she fails? What if you can't get the money back?"

Horacious heaved his shoulders in a long shrug. "Then perhaps I will take her head, yes?"

Hawke frowned. "I thought you said you were a loyal, pious member of the Chantry."

"The Imperial Chantry," Horacious roared, beating his cane against the ground. "My Chantry. You would call it the Black Chantry, yes? It does not matter, she means nothing to me. No man or woman of the Imperial Chantry would so foolishly steal from the _Equs_. But you need not worry this. I do not believe I have need to take your Knight-Commander's head. Not today at least, yes?"

Hawke was at a loss, his mind was beginning to spin. "Who killed Josain?" he asked, as though the answer to that simple question would be enough.

"Agents," Horacious explained calmly, "their names mean little. You think I would kill these men? They are urchins. They mean little to I, yes? I would not have Titus sully his blade with them. They will die in days, weeks, maybe months. In Ferelden, no one hangs the Mabari with the master. It is the man who holds the leash.. Champion, my friend. I ask that you do not worry. All will be set aright."

"You know that my sister is in the Circle," Hawke finally said, clenching his fists. "You know everything, so I imagine you know that."

"Just so," Horacious said with a nod.

"Then you must know that if Meredith doesn't get the money back...or if you harm her...she's liable to turn on the mages in the Circle. My sister among them."

"I have called you my friend, yes?" Horacious explained, cracking the cane against the ground again. "I have defended the dog of Denarius, why do you not trust me now?"

It was the final straw, Hawke felt a snap as he saw red pulsing at the edges of his vision. "Because you're a fat selfish bastard with a golem at your beck and call that will kill anyone that crosses you."

Rather than appear insulted, as Hawke might have guessed, Horacious only beamed a thick ivory smile. "Just so," he explained happily. "But I cherish those I call friend, yes? You worry too much. Tomorrow this will end, I promise you. If you are not happy with the end..." Horacious shrugged, "come, kill me, or try to. This is the way Ferelden handles things, yes? Then it is so. But I shall see this ended and then I shall make my leave on the tide. We are finished here."

"Why are you so certain I am your friend?" Hawke asked bitterly, finding himself rising in disgust as Horacious turned his back to him.

The fat Tevinter did not bother to regard the Champion as he climbed the stair, a careful, unsteady step with each one, guided by his cane. "Because my dear Champion," he explained, "we are both good men cast into positions we do not want." When he reached the top after what seemed to be the greatest labor of the man's life, Horacious finally looked at him, a death fire in his eyes. "And if you try to interfere I will hang that whore you call your lover like the pirate bitch that she is."

Horacious did not allow for the Champion to respond, Cicero accentuating that point by appearing in front of him with a glower that demanded that he leave. But in that moment, with chilled blood coursing through his vains, Tiber Hawke could have strangled the Tevinter through his fat jowls.


	27. Chapter 26 - The City Watch

"It shall be known as a blood feud," Cullen explained, his mouth twisting as he tried to make the words tangible, but he was visibly perturbed by the words. "Pirates that had pursued them from Rivain."

"Is this what Kirkwall has come to?" Aveline asked sadly, looking down at her desk where her hands were folded. "She expects me to be the mouth of Templar lies."

Cullen fidgeted in his seat, even pulling at the steel collar of his armor as though he could loosen it with such a gesture. Aveline watched him, but for a variety of reasons offered him no reprieve. Her patience with Templars was wearing thin, though it was a struggle to admit it even to herself. Her loyalties were a complex web, often times dizzying even her if she thought too hard or long on the matter. The Templars were an ancient and sacred order whose duty was clear as it was important, but so too was her task within the city guard. Who was right when the righteous clashed? The entire situation left her with a headache and a sour taste in her mouth.

Finally Cullen slid a piece of paper across the table to Aveline, wherein all they had just discussed had been detailed. "We've already put out a notice for families of the slain to come retrieve the bodies. The Templars shall cover the ugly incidentals but...I need you to sign off on this." He was ignoring her line of questions, perhaps struggling with them himself.

Aveline was a fighter through and through, but the spark that fueled her was wearing thin in the past several days. She had turned what documents over to the Circle she had pertaining to the death of Ser Josain, though she and her aids had gone through great lengths to fill pages and pages of reports with stretched letters and sentences that almost always amounted to the same truth: they had no idea what happened to the man.

She had dared to hope that Hawke would have been able to conjure something from the emptiness of Mummer's Street, that he would be able to milk Anders dry of information, but nothing seemed to take. And now the Templar had arrived to seize control of the investigation, wielding a subtlety that was somehow even less than her own guards were capable of. The clamoring of metal armor, the profanities, the incidental brawls were all a common aspect when her guards tried to throw themselves into a situation, but the Templars had a methodical manner about them that left a sour taste in Aveline's mouth. They would come bearing torches, thumb screws, and worst of all not a stone of patience.

As she looked down at the document in front of her she knew that she was signing far more than just her agreement that the _Nautilus_ had been picked clean by Rivaini pirates. It was worse than a lie. What lay before her was a warrant, her concession that Meredith could have free reign across Kirkwall, checked at best by the weak and often times impudent First Enchanter. The Grand Cleric would hear his pleas, but likely when it was too late and hundreds had seen their end. The quill next to her was too heavy for her, the consequences too great for such a simple gesture as a signature.

"What if it wasn't a mage?" Aveline finally asked, looking back up at Cullen, trying to put the piece of paper from her mind. "What if it was a simple mugging?"

"Then...hopefully...we will get to the bottom of that very quickly." Cullen did not sound confident in those words. "When we apprehend those responsible they will be tried by the Chantry for their crimes."

"What would Dumar say about all this?"

Cullen shrugged. "Everyone seems to be remembering him so fondly now that he is not here to mess everything up. I served under that man's rule for years. He had a good but fickle and weak heart. I can't tell you with any certainty how he would have behaved, but the Qunari were allowed to terrorize this city for years, if that is any indication."

"Your men have been asking a lot of questions," Aveline continued, folding her hands over the document in front of her, "what have you learned?"

Cullen frowned, recognizing that she was stalling for time. He glanced over his shoulder as though to insure that the door to her office were still firmly shut. Templars had been posted throughout the Keep since Dumar had died, but with the chaos in the past week their numbers had grown to an impressive amount, dwarfing even those with legitimate business.

"The most curious information came from the Alienage," he explained, looking back to her, "I feel sadly confident in saying that Ser Josain is dead and the Elves had done what they could to give him an impromptu funeral. Meredith is going to insist on another round of questioning though. A...harder round of questioning."

The thought sent a chill up Aveline's spine, making the quill at the side of her hand even heavier to the thought.

"We need to see an end to this," Cullen continued, "I'm no happier with this entire situation than you are."

"Yet here you are," Aveline said angrily, feeling her spark turn into something akin to an ember.

Cullen looked somber, but nodded his agreement. "And here I am."

Aveline lifted her hands so that she could look back down at the paper Cullen had offered her. She took in a long, deep sigh, then with shaky hands picked the thing up. Her eyes darted across the words one more time, until with a long, frustrated breath she tore the thing in two, then crossed the two pieces and did so again.

The Knight-Captain looked as though he'd been slapped, watching the action with a horror usually reserved for battle. Aveline could not deny her own feeling of fear as she looked at the ruined paper in her hands, then with one final move tore it once more as though to add a promise to the gesture.

"I am posting my guards in the Alienage," she warned, steadying her voice, "and in several other points that Meredith has shown interest in. If you wish to ask questions, do so, but my men's loyalty is to Kirkwall and its citizens. If your Templars put a threat to this sacred charge then the guards will do their duty to protect them."

Cullen's lips pursed as he tried to find the words to respond with, but he remained silent for a long while. At last he finally sighed and rose to his feet.

"Meredith is going to have your head," the Templar said somberly, retrieving his gauntlets and his helmet from Aveline's desk. "You're threatening her with a war."

"No," Aveline insisted as she threw the shredded document onto her desk dismissively. "She is threatening Kirkwall with a war and the City Guard has never backed down when its people are threatened."


	28. Chapter 27 - A Murder of Dwarves

The path to Danarius's abandoned mansion was normally lined with dozens of merchants and even more buyers, creating an avenue of bodies that Fenris would have to push through if he'd hoped to sneak into the estate. It somehow made it easier to slip through unnoticed, with all eyes on apples, pears, and necklaces it did not feel as though anyone had a thought to spare for an Elf gliding past them with careful, measured steps. But now the street was empty, the sounds of sales and bartering replaces only by the metallic drum of marching knights.

Even before he had arrived at the mansion Fenris had been put on edge, leaning closer to the shadows of overhanging balconies and tents as he crept closer. He felt his own sense of danger growing as he spied the entire patrol of Templars that lingered at the front door to the mansion, just out of earshot, though at this distance he could tell _that_ they were speaking, their words quiet and muffled.

He frowned as he watched them. Were they looking for him or had some other investigation simply led them in the area? Fenris froze under a merchant's canopy. Every instinct in him wanted to creep forward for a better chance at hearing what the Templars were talking about, but wisdom and fear kept him rooted.

They paced about in front of the door several times, apparently having an argument of some sort before one of them approached the door with a hammer in one hand. With a swing of the mallet he nailed a proclomation of some sort to the door, then pointed at one of the others. He spoke something, then he and the others turned and left.

The remaining Templar leaned back against the door's frame boredly, a hand resting idle on the pommel of his sword. Fenris gave him one more curious stare before turning to leave. Curiosity as to what the Templars had left posted on his door assailed him, but it would do no good to investigate anyway, he could not hope to read the words.

When he felt confident that the Templar's companions had left he rose from the shadows and dashed down the alleyways of Hightown. Templars were becoming an increasingly common sight, whether marching as part of a patrol or simply posted at guards, with many of them pulling merchants aside with a forceful jerk for questioning.

Fenris could feel eyes on him no matter how hard he tried to blend with the crowds, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He, like everyone else in Hightown, had seen the trickle of more Templars in recent days, but now it was becoming a flood of them, one could virtually drown in the knights that were springing up seemingly from the ground like legends of Dwarves of old. They seemed to have no restraint, Fenris even witnessing one savagely beat a highborn man trying only to resist the knight's iron grip.

Twisting around a bend to Hawke's mansion, Fenris froze when he saw a Templar being pinned against a wall by a handful of city guards, their dark iron armor a stark contrast to the silver of the knight. The Templar struggled and grasped at the hand holding his throat while the guards began to pummel him, throwing venomous insults and barbed words as they savaged the man.

Confused, Fenris slipped past them as quickly as he could, careful to stick to the shadows. All around him the Templars were pushing a little too hard and a cadre of guards would appear, pushing back just a little harder. On occasion it would come to blows, sending citizens scurrying in terror. He did not know what was going on, but it did not take a wise man to realize that tension were beginning to reach a boiling point. He needed to get off the streets.

When he reached Hawke's estate, as expected Bodahn swung the door open after Fenris knocked. "Serrah Fenris," he greeted quizzically.

"I need to come inside," Fenris urged, "is Hawke home?"

Bodahn did not need to be told twice. Whether it had been the urgency in Fenris's tone or he had spied the conflict in the street from a high up window Bodahn's face showed that he understood the gravity of the situation and ushered him in at once.

"He should be book soon, serrah," Bodahn explained as he turned and gestured toward his aloof son. "Sandal get me more supports, boy." Sandal gave no verbal response, silently retrieving a large wooden beam that he brought forward at his father's insistence, dropping it down against the marble floor with a loud thud. Bodahn hoisted it across the door, locking it in the hooks intended precisely for such a support. He tested the strength of it by tugging on the door, then dusted his hands. "What in the devils is going on out there?"

Fenris shrugged, only then realizing how out of breath he was. "I think the Templars are trying to seize the city."

Bodahn shook his head, stroking his auburn beard in thought. "Bad tidings that is," he said. "Sandal, into the Solar if you please." Sandal bobbed his head and turned, trotting off at a casual pace that belied the danger outside. "I hope Messere Hawke is alright."

"He's the one person I don't worry for," Fenris mused as he followed Bodahn into the antechamber. The Dwarf offered up a chair for Fenris.

"Can I get you any refreshments Serrah?" Fenris shook his head, sliding into the offered chair. "Then best we can do is wait. Let me know if you need anything." Bodahn was visibly shaken as he climbed into his own chair, retrieving a book that he'd left on a nearby table. Fenris sighed, unable to make out the words on the cover, the art little more than a runic looking swirl. Bodahn looked up at the sound. "I can read it aloud if you like."

Fenris raised an eyebrow, then nodded. It seemed a better idea than dwelling on the sounds of shouting and occasional fighting from outside. Bodahn nodded and began to speak the words he read. It was a boring, uninteresting drull, bouncing between poetry and essays on the people of Nevarra. He did not realize just how many ways someone could describe a woman's hands and eyes in a single stanza.

It went on like this for nearly an hour before both were snapped away from the book by the sound of pounding at the door. Fenris instinctively jumped to his feet, but Bodahn was more cautious. At first whoever was on the other side tried to simply open it, but when that failed they began to pound against it with their fist.

"Why is this bloody door locked?" Hawke's voice called out, followed by more intense pounding upon the door.

"I'm comin', Messere!" Bodahn called out as he hobbled as quickly as he could to the door, Fenris in tow. He hoisted the beam off its hooks, then unlatched the myriad of complex locks, swinging the door open. "Begging your pardons, Messere, but the streets ain't safe. I didn't want it to happen that you came back to us all wearin' red smiles and half your goods gone."

Hawke nodded then turned his attention to Hawke. "I've been looking for you."

"It would seem we are two in the same," Fenris agreed. "What's going on out there?"

"An unstoppable force just met an immovable object," Hawke said wryly with a displeased twist of his mouth. "It looks like Meredith's getting desperate and Aveline won't budge."

"Pleasant..." Fenris growled, "why were they posting notices on _my_ door?"

"What?

"A group of Templars were at Danarius's mansion. When no one answered they hung a notice and left a guard."

Hawke shook his head in confusion. "I don't know," he said, "but we need to get to Meredith. She probably wanted to question you about the incident on the docks." Hawke pushed past the two, gesturing for them to follow. "Bodahn, my armor." He continued to speak to Fenris over his shoulder. "None of this was about the bloody Templar," he explained, "Ser Josain was carrying the lottery money, that Meredith just so happened to borrow from a group of rich Tevinters."

Fenris frowned as he followed. "So that's what brought Horacious here."

"I don't know what he's planning to do." They entered into the armory and Bodahn silently began retrieving the various pieces to Hawke's silver armor. It was smoother and held closer to the body than the Templars, built to deflect the blows from a sword rather than absorb them. "But she lost the Tevinters' money to a bunch of muggers and who knows how he's going to react to that."

Fenris watched as the Dwarf moved deftly, thick fingers nimbly tightening leather straps and quickly moving onto the next piece. Hawke lifted out his arms at his sides so that Bodahn could slide the breastplate over his torso.

"What about Anders?"

Hawke shook his head, grunting as Bodahn pulled tightly against the straps, temporarily stealing his breath. "Nothing to do with it. But you know him, he'd rather the Templars think he did."

"The damn fool."

"Now's not the time," Hawke chastised, "Meredith is undoubtedly starting to panic. She thinks she's facing a potential mage revolt, the people are almost to the point of rioting over the lottery being cancelled, and she knows she has to pay back Horacious. We need to stop her from doing anything rash." He chewed on the next words a moment. "And we have to protect her."

"Anders would be so proud," Fenris mused. Hawke slid on his gauntlets as Bodahn retrieved his helmet. It was a similarly polished steel to the rest of his armor, but was a pig faced bascinet. Hawke slid the face guard open so that his view would not be obstructed. Fenris had heard him on more than one occasion complaining that it felt like fighting in a furnace with the face guard lowered.

Finally Bodahn retrieved his sword and Hawke hooked it onto the belt of his armor. "We have to go." He allowed no time for any further conversation, stepping with the authority of a field commander as he led Fenris to the door. Before he left he instructed Bodahn to re-seal the entrance, to grab a pike, and be ready to defend Sandal with his life.

Fenris knew the danger of the situation. With Templars and guards already beginning to brawl in the streets who knew what the lawless would turn to when the law's eyes were focused on fighting one another. Hawke put a hand on Bodahn's shoulder, then stepped out the open door, Fenris following after.

The Champion's armor squeaked, clanked, and thudded with each step and his hand was firmly gripped to the hilt of his weapon. He strode with more confidence than Fenris had, allowing a degree of bravado to enter into the Elf's step as well. Two were a better match than one, he agreed, particularly with the intimidating force of the Champion of Kirkwall in full regalia.

The feuds in Hightown seemed to have finally calmed, even if the guards and Templars continued to stare at one another with scowls intense enough to be seen through their great helms. Occasionally they would turn to regard Hawke, but he had no time nor patience for the lot of them. The bending paths that would take themto the Gallows were beginning to swell with people. The sheer, brute force of the Templars outweighed the numbers of panicked merchants and noblemen that ran past, worrying they too would get caught in what was becoming a brawl.

"Hawke!" a familiar voice called out suddenly from among the crowds. They were descending the great stair that would lead to the canal bridges separating Hightown from Lowtown, and further Lowtown from the Gallows. At first Fenris and Hawke simply froze, looking for the source of the cry as bodies continued to push past each other, threatening to turn into a stampede to escape Hightown. Finally Varric's head poked out amongst the crowd as he waved a thick, gloved hand. "Hawke we have a problem."

"I'd say so," Hawke said dryly, grabbing Varric by the jacket to tug him out of the tide of people. "Stick close."

The three shoved, pushed, and ground their way off the pathway until they were all but spat out into Lowtown, where the cascade of pushing people seemed to thin out, but the sounds of brawling and battle were being replaced by howls that lingered on the air.

"Wherever you're going it can wait," Varric explained when he finally got his breath, following Hawke and Fenris into an alleyway so that they could get a better sense of the situation. "We have to get to the Alienage."

"Why?" Hawke demanded. Fenris could see even in spite of his intimidating armor that the Champion was becoming agitated, his presence being pulled in every conceivable direction. "I need to go find Meredith."

Varric shook his head and rose to his full height. "The Templars have decided they want something from the Elves. If we don't get down there who knows what's going to happen - and who knows what they're going to do to Daisy."

Fenris frowned at the thought of returning to the place. The Alienage may as well have been an ancient Tevinter slave quarter, as far as he was concerned, where the despondent and dispossessed huddled like cattle to languish and complain about their lot in life. Further still, however, thoughts of Merrill entered into his mind. Whatever disagreement he may have had with the upstart little Dalish was nothing compared to how the Templars would react when they found the ancient mirror she had in her house. The entire city was going mad, who knew how Meredith, or worse a rank and file Templar eager to prove his chops to his superiors, would link the poor girl to the insanity that had stricken Kirkwall.

Hawke gritted his teeth, turning one longing glance to the west in the direction of the Gallows before finally conceding with a long sigh. He slammed the visor of his helmet shut with a loud start, then nodded at Varric.

"Let's go," he barked, his voice muffled by the metal cage protecting his face.

Lurching in the corners and bends of Lowtown thousands of eyes peered out at the three as they ran into the Alienage that everyone was running from, making Fenris feel as though he were in some part of bizarre, bloody play for the paupers' amusement. When they reached the bottom of the steps that would take them to the Alienage the walled in, densely packed subcommunity was a sight of madness that caused a flare of distress to flash across Fenris's face. Templars were kicking in doors, dragging women by their hair across the square, or brandishing weapons at frightened families. It reminded him all too well of the seemingly random raids the Tevinters would unleash upon the hapless slaves he had lived with under Danarius. Fenris did not know what had provoked such an assault on the city dwelling Elves, but for this moment he was transported to a time many years ago when strength was a fantasy beyond his reach, and like a frightened child he had hid away under a cart, watching as Tevinters brutalized their pets for just as mysterious reasons.

"Who's in command here?" Hawke demanded, his voice bouncing off the high walls of the Alienage. Fenris had not even noticed that the man had drawn his sword and was pointing its tip at one of the Templars with a handful of Elven hair.

The Templar immediately dropped his grip on the woman and stood to face Hawke, looking left to right at his comrades for some sort of assistance. The others seemed just as lost for words as their companion.

"I asked you all a question," Hawke bellowed again.

Fenris saw movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately retrieved the sword that was on his back in a single motion. He turned to face what he had seen, spying a Templar stepping out of one of the many dwellings, arms full of loot. It was probably some Elf's entire life he held in his arms: a soft looking pillow, several pans, and a pewter candle stick, little necessities that would fetch at least a week's wage at a broker.

"Put it back," Fenris warned, angling his blade so that he could bring it down in a single chopping motion.

"We're here on the Knight-Commander's orders," the first Templar finally spoke up. Sensing the distraction, the Elven woman he had previously been tormenting climbed to shaky feet and sought refuge back inside the home she had been dragged out of.

"Did the Knight-Commander order you to loot Elven homes too?" Hawke spit, stepping forward menacingly and causing the accused to step back. "I'll ask one more time, who's in charge here?"

"I am, now," the strong voice of Aveline called from behind Hawke, drawing all eyes back to her as she descended the stone stairway to the square. She was flanked by a half dozen guards in full battle regalia, but she had arrived without her helmet, protected enough it seemed by the scowl that she was wearing. Fenris stepped aside so that she could pass. The guard captain did not waste a step as she found herself before the Templar still holding the prize he had stolen, though any certainty he'd had only moments ago was replaced by a visible panic as he looked between his companions for help. Aveline slammed a balled fist into the pile of looted goods he was holding, sending them crashing to the ground at his feet.

Aveline then grabbed at the man's helmet, tugging it off forcefully and throwing it aside so that it crashed against the ground with an equally unceremonious bang. She narrowed her eyes when she recognized the young face beneath. She gestured toward the guards that had accompanied her. "This man and the others are under arrest."

Hands fell to swords in that moment and the metal of a dozen men suddenly crouching into battle positions twisted and scraped.

"We're here under the Knight-Commander's orders!" the unhelmeted Templar whined. "This is treachery against the Chantry!"

Any further protest was silenced by a mailed backhand against the man's jaw, sending a spray of blood from his mouth. He choked and coughed for a minute before touching where he'd been stricken.

"Clap them in irons," she ordered her guards once more, "I want them alive if possible."

Outnumbered as they were and seeing the woman backed by the Champion of Kirkwall seemed to sap the Templars of any remaining faith they had in invoking Meredith's name. For a moment Fenris thought he caught the youngest among them weeping, though he tried to pay no heed to them. They threw their swords at their feet, sneering and cursing at Aveline as the guards shackled them and dragged them off to the dungeons.

Aveline sighed then looked at Hawke. "Merrill came and told me what was happening here," she finally explained, "the poor girl is more frightened than I've ever seen."

"Where is she now?" Fenris asked as his eyes drew to the door of Merrill's apartment.

"I have her in protective custody. I have half a mind to do the same with you."

"Why were there Templars at my door?" Fenris asked abruptly, turning to face Aveline.

"They wanted to question you, I would guess," she explained, "Meredith has decided that every Elf in the city is a suspect in the Templar's death for one thing."

"She shouldn't even know I was living there."

Aveline continued, undaunted. "She's also in a panic over the lottery money apparently. She probably thought an abandoned mansion was the perfect place to hide it."

Fenris spied Hawke sliding the visor onto his brow and frowning. "Is that what this is about now? I need to see her, _now_."

Aveline fidgeted. "That won't be easy, if it's even possible," Aveline explained, "she's paranoid at the moment. She thinks someone is coming after her, she probably thinks the city is on the verge of a revolt." She grimaced and looked at the mess the Templars had made of the Alienage. "Without even realizing she's pushing it to revolt."

"Someone _is_ coming after her," Hawke warned. "We have to get to her."

Hawke did not wait for any further arguments from Aveline, instead spinning on his heels and marching out of the Alienage, determined to get to Meredith with or without his companions. Fenris was the first to follow after him, though Varric and Aveline were not far behind.

As they walked, Fenris leaned in close. "Horacious?" he asked, his voice hushed as though he were worried to speak the name too loudly would summon the man.

"It's the lottery," Hawke explained angrily, "it's always been about the lottery, the whole god damn time it's been about the lottery."

Fenris stared at him, his own silence beckoning Hawke to continue.

"Ser Josain wasn't killed by mages," Hawke went on as they ducked into the bridge that would take them to the Gallows. "He was mugged for the lottery money. Meredith borrowed it from Horacious's friends and he's here to see it returned."

"That's what this is really all about?" Aveline asked, her voice a cocktail of frustration and disappointment. "What about the heads on the docks?"

"That one was a favor," Hawke laughed, a bitter, cynical laugh. "For Fenris, for me. They attacked Fenris, the Tevinter decided he was going to make an example of them."

"Why does he give two shits about you?" Aveline pressed.

Hawke stopped as they approached the great gate to the Gallows and sighed. "I've been asking him that since the day I met him."

"Who stole the lottery then?"

Varric cleared his throat as they stepped into the archway, drawing all eyes to him. He pointed upward to the torches that hung high on the stone carved walls. When Fenris drew his eyes in the direction Varric was pointing he found himself letting a slight gasp when he realized why the pathway was so dark: many of the torches had been replaced by heads, their eyes torn out just like the crew of the _Nautilus_. They were short, round, stubby heads belonging to Dwarves. There were three of them, one with a green, dyed beard, one clean shaven, and the last with a forked, golden beard.

"Does that answer your question?" Varric asked wryly.

"Who are they?" Fenris asked, gawking at the heads with a wide eyed, morbid curiosity.

"Those are delegates of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild," Aveline said somberly. "I recognize them."

"Uthras, Hestor, and Balric to be specific," Varric said, his tone sardonic and scratched. "It's a good thing they didn't let me in on their little plot, I guess, my head would look terrible up there."

Hawke could not peel his eyes away from the garrish scene. "The Dwarves?" he finally said, shaking his head. "The Dwarves did this?"

Varric shrugged, seeming too amused by the ghoulish scene. "Some of them did, anyway. Your friend Horacious had a few questions for me about it."

"I'll see that Tevinter hang," Aveline swore, but Hawke was simply shaking his head.

"Good luck on that," he mocked as he steeled himself and continued down the tunnel. "Right now we need to focus on Meredith before her head shows up somewhere."


	29. Chapter 28 - Duty to a Friend

Darktown was becoming flooded with Templars, but worse was the fact that the mud and grime of the half hearted roads were also becoming filled to the ankle with blood of the fallen. In their own heavy handed way the Templars had attempted to start by asking questions, but the meek and starved that populated Kirkwall's forgotten blight were not accustomed to the courtesies demanded by authority and facing death every day at the hands of starvation or worse, they were not easily intimidated when the Templars stepped up their threats. Further, the knights were young. Anders could hear it in their voices, in their turn of phrase. They were green lads unaccustomed to conflict and too unaccustomed to letting an insult pass.

Anders had abandoned his hiding place when the Templars appeared less like a series of patrols and more like an invading horde, dashing to and fro and barking directions at the refugees he had come to know day in and day out. He directed them into the sewers, placed them in crates, any impromptu hiding spot he could find until the Templars had left, and he had felt the color drain from his face when he looked up from helping a sickly child into a crevice, only to see a fine steel sword protruding through the chest of a man whose only crime was not backing down.

All at once a mob of skeletal youths and old men jaded by a lifetime of hardship descended upon the Templars, but weak fingers, nails, and crude clubs did nothing against the silver armor and swords of the Templars. The first few who had fallen seemed to work the others into a frenzy, abandoning concepts of personal safety or a thought of living to see tomorrow, instead each one hoping to be a dew drop in the stream that would erode the knights that now stood in Darktown.

At first Anders had tried to continue pulling what refugees he could away from the fighting, directing them to somewhere that they could just hide and get away from it all, but more and more began to look upon the Templars with glazed eyes of fury before throwing themselves into the fray. They were less men now than pack of wild dogs nipping at the knights' heels.

He felt helpless as he watched a sea of bodies continue to throw themselves to their deaths, looking like fish caught in a feeding frenzy. They leapt, they pushed, they struggled against each other in a desperate attempt to be the next one to swing at the phalanx of Templars, at best landing only a glancing blow before their blood too was added to the growing pool at their feet. The longer this went on, however, the more the helplessness turned to disgust, the more Anders could feel a growing rage in his heart.

He heard the Templars beginning to bark orders at one another and their panicked defense was turning into a tightened, rigid formation. Shields interlocked with a dramatic clash, causing the bodies of the dispossessed and starved to bounce off of them like leaves and rather than stand their ground, the Templars were beginning to push forward. Anders ducked under a low hanging pillar, determination pouring through his veins through his fast beating heart as he raced to his clinic.

The door was still shut when he arrived. When he went inside he frowned in confusion. The entire room had been visibly searched by the Templars, with shelves and documents strewn across the floor, vials and bottles full of balms and tonics smashed to create a stinging odor that pierced his nose. But Ser Josain's sword was still there, rested against a chair as though it were the least interesting object in Kirkwall. Despite his confusion he grabbed the thing and hurried back to the battle.

It had ceased to be a battle by the time Anders had arrived and was turning into a massacre. The Templar formation had broken as the gained ground and the were now swinging their swords wildly, giving no care to whoever they passed by. No longer were they simply targeting those who assailed them, but even the men and women who attempted to flee were cut down like so many chickens fleeing the hound.

Anders could feel his skin beginning to crackle with such an intense rage that it felt as though he were going to burst. He threw himself then into the thick body of Templars, staff in hand. He slammed it into the mud before them, sending out a crackle of energy that threw them from their feet, one even tossed over the side of a railing to several floors below, his life ending with a dramatic crunch. He rose to his full height then with the assistance of his staff, his body crackling with energy.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice carrying off the walls with such an intensity that it seemed to set the already disoriented Templars back another step. He threw Josain's sword in front of him, point first so that it stabbed into the ground, the strength behind the gesture enough that half the blade was buried into the soft mud, swaying back and forth like a flag in the wind. "Is this how you honor your fallen brother? By adding the blood of so many innocent to this tragedy?"

He took a menacing step forward. The Templars were rising to shaky knees and all at once Anders became aware how many sets of eyes were on him. He pointed at the Templar that was commanding the others. Rage was consuming him then and despite a single fleeting thought of mercy passing through his mind he could not keep himself from igniting the tips of his fingers with a pulse of electricity that blast forward and consumed the commander, causing his body to jerk and bend in painful contortions.

When the dramatic display of lightning ceased, the Templar fell to the ground, unmoving save for the occasional spasm of his shoulder. The others stared at their fallen commander a moment before their eyes returned to Anders, who was now waving his hand at them.

"Go," he boomed again, his voice impossibly deep, breaking under the strain of an anger too great for volume. "Run like the cowards that you are. Run to your Circle." He began to step toward them, but heeding his advice the green Templars began to back away until they were certain that the same fate would not befall them, then they turned their backs to him and began to run, abandoning shields and helmets in the desperation of their flight. "Run to your Chantry!" Anders bellowed behind them. "And think that keeps you safe from Justice."

When the knights had finally disappeared from view the eruption of light that had consumed Anders disappeared as quickly as it had come and suddenly sapped for energy he fell to his knees. He looked at Josain's sword a moment before rising back to his feet, tired, shaking against the effort. He could still feel the eyes of Darktown upon him, but with a sense of determination he ignored them, grabbing the blade by the hilt and marching in the direction of the Templars, trailing the weapon's tip against the ground as he walked.


	30. Chapter 29 - The Horse Arrives

For a moment Hawke had allowed himself to think that he had seen every Templar in Kirkwall between Hightown and the Alienage, but an entire army was now waiting for them at the Gallows. Their resolve was such that he even felt more like a commoner than the city's Champion. Only then did he realize how accustomed he had grown to the reverence heaped upon him, how comfortably he had slid into the role of the cherished vanguard of the city. It had been a subtle thing that burrowed like a tick into the back of his mind, only becoming aware when the honors and conveniences were stripped from him in the Gallows.

Aveline would not suffer their statue-like hindrance upon her path, however. A single Templar in their path had obstructed them, but she had pushed him aside with a forceful shove that Hawke knew would have resulted in swords being drawn against anyone else. The captain of the guard, however, was as intimidating as she was determined. The four were not challenged as they approached the archway to the Circle, but Hawke felt uneasy surrounded by what may as well have been a forest of Templar statues.

Inside the Circle the armor clad knights of the Templars were anything but still like they were outside, reinforcing the enormous gateways that would lead to the inner sanctums where the mages were kept or carrying arms from one end of the keep to the other. Hawke and Aveline exchanged concerned looks before climbing the stair to Meredith's office, entering without so much as a knock or announcement.

Her office was no less lively than the rest of the Circle, with nearly a dozen Templars with helms tucked under their arms surrounding a table, eyes drawn to a map that the silver haired Meredith was spouting directions over. When Hawke and the others stepped inside her attention snapped up to them, a scowl that seemed perfectly shaped to her features thrown at each of them.

"I do not recall summoning the Captain of the Guard again," Meredith hissed before looking at Hawke. "Nor the Champion."

"We don't have time to argue," Hawke insisted, stepping to the table. He did not recognize most of the Templars, though he was familiar with Cullen, with the close cropped hair and the diligent, chiseled features who stood at Meredith's side. The man exchanged a stare with Aveline before looking to Meredith for instructions. Hawke tried to continue, but Meredith cut him off.

"I should say not. The city is close to riot and I understand _your_ guards are turning on my Templars in the streets. What is the meaning of this? Is this some conspiracy you've cooked up with Orsino?"

"My duty is to the citizens of Kirkwall," Aveline protested, pushing her way past the Templars at Meredith's table so that she could be closer to the Knight-Commander. "Your Templars have been harassing and bullying those citizens since dawn."

"Putting down dissent," Meredith said dismissively, "questioning rebels. We are looking at a complete revolution on our hands. And worse."

Hawke growled. "I know precisely what is going on," he barked, "and that's why I'm here. I know all about the lottery. I know that Ser Josain had the money on him when he was killed."

Cullen's eyes suddenly snapped to Meredith, widened as his lips twisted in a look of confusion and anger.

"Is this true?" the Knight-Captain asked breathlessly.

Meredith's scowl was suddenly thrown on her associate as she threw her hands in the air in dejected defeat. "What does it matter?" she insisted. "He was a Templar slain in the line of duty by mages in an attempt to fuel their little revolt. I won't allow it. Who knows how many mercenaries they've bought with that gold. We'll make our stand here while I alert-,"

"There's not going to be any revolution," Hawke yelled, "and it wasn't the damn mages. But who took it is of no consequence right now. The man you borrowed the money from is in the city and he's very, very angry."

"A threat?" Meredith roared, though Hawke suspected from her breaking voice that she was merely putting on a show for her men. "Do you mean to threaten me, Champion?"

"I mean to _warn_ you. I know you've noticed him, he hasn't been subtle. Has he tried to contact you? Has he said anything?"

At first Meredith looked around the room, as though she were suddenly worried the fat man would spring from some elaborate hiding place. Finally she slammed her gauntleted fists into the table top, tearing a seam on the map and sending utensils flying. "All of you," she barked at her Templars, "out, I need to speak with the Champion."

Ever the loyal dog, Cullen looked at his men, pursing his lips to keep from speaking ill of the Knight-Commander in their presence. "You heard the Knight-Commander," he said, "out. There's work around here that needs doing."

They did not need to be told again, shuffling past Hawke and the others before filing out of her office, shutting the door behind them. Meredith watched them go, then rose, straightening her back and eyeing the four others that remained with long, dangerous looks.

"Your apostate friend makes it hard for me to believe the mages weren't behind this," Meredith said when she was certain no one else could hear their conversation.

Hawke was forced to choose his words carefully. "Anders..." he started slowly, "was _aware_ of Josain's death, but he didn't do it."

"He's right," Varric spoke up at last, "the other members of the Merchants' Guild tried to get me to help them with it, but they were tight lipped as all hell about it. Didn't even know what they were trying to get me to help them with until yesterday. And now they're dead."

Meredith was pacing. "Who?" she asked suddenly. "The Tevinter?"

"The fat one? Really self conscious about his grey hair and dyes it blue? Ugly body guard with a horse tattoo? Yeah, that'd be my guess," Varric continued.

"I came here to keep you safe," Hawke interrupted before Varric's mouth got them into trouble, "the man's name is Horacious. I know he's here for the money, but I have no idea what his plan is." A sudden fear creeped up Hawke's spine as the words left his mouth. He could hear Horacious's final threat echoing through his ears and the thought of Isabela in a gibbet brought a bile to his throat.

"He wouldn't dare..." Meredith said unconvincingly, stopping and crossing her arms over her chest. "He wouldn't dare," she repeated.

"He killed the entire crew of the _Nautilus_ and three of the more esteemed Dwarves of the Merchants' Guild. I think he'd dare," Varric poked, earning him a glare from Hawke.

"I'm here to warn you and keep keep you safe," Hawke continued, looking back at Meredith, "what do you plan to do? This madness outside _has_ to stop, people are dying in the streets and you're right, it could spill over into a revolt very soon if we're not careful. And worse, it's making it easier for Horacious to move."

Meredith's eyes were awash with thoughts, glinting in the candlelight of her office as she tried to weigh her options. Her foot was patting at the ground in a loose rhythm as she tried to make sense of it all.

"We can't kill him," Meredith finally conceded. "Then they'll only send more. But I don't have the money, Champion. Do you realize that was going to buy this city a whole nother year? That paid for the Templars' wages, how long do you think loyalty to the Chantry will keep an army of destitute orphans and bastards in place? That money was going to settle our debts and open new jobs in the city. A year, Champion. That money bought us a _year_ and now it's gone. What do you propose I do?"

Hawke ran a frustrated hand through his hair as he gritted his teeth. "I don't know," he admitted, "but right now we have to worry about keeping you safe and clearing the streets."

Before Meredith could respond a knock came at the door to her office. Meredith called them in. Hawke's eyebrows raised as he saw Anders gripped by the arms by a pair of Templars, a third walking in front of them holding the sword with the Ferelden heraldry that he recognized from the clinic. The blood drained from the Champion's face and a chill swept across his body as he watched the knights throw Anders to the ground, the leader presenting Josain's sword to Meredith. The Knight-Commander's eyes were wild with fire and rage as she clutched the weapon in her hands, instantly recognizing it. She looked at Anders with all the hate that existed in the world.

"What is the meaning of this?" she roared with an intensity that nearly set Hawke aback.

The leading Templar touched his chest in salute. "The apostate turned himself into us carrying that weapon. He insisted, however, that he needed to speak to you."

Anders climbed painfully to his feet, clutching at his side where Hawke presumed that the Templars had hit him before dragging him in. The death stare he launched back at Meredith matched her intensity and for a moment Hawke seriously doubted that Horacious was the greatest threat the Knight-Commander faced that day.

"What do you have to say for yourself, mage?" Meredith accused more than asked, the final word seeping out of her like a disgusting venom she needed to expunge.

"I have seen Ser Josain's grave," Anders said without missing a beat, "I know not how the man died, but judging by his effects I have some idea of how he lived. I meant to return his sword that his family might have some solace." He finally looked away from the Knight-Commander, glowering at the Templars that had restrained him. He jerked his shoulders to get their hands off of him, then took a menacing step forward. "I can lead you to the grave, should you wish to exhume it and give him the proper cremation his role in the Chantry deserves. But I can no longer stand idley by and watch this madness in the streets his death has brought."

Meredith twisted the blade between her hands so tightly that Hawke thought she might draw blood. She looked down at the weapon for a moment, then finally let it fall to her side, holding it only by the hilt in her left hand. "What do you mean to get out of this?"

"I mean to save the lives of innocent mages from _your_ wrath," Anders responded immediately. He was beginning to tremble and Hawke suspected that Meredith might have found some joy in that, though she was a fool for it. It was obvious that he was fighting a power far greater than her, struggling to keep his emotions and the spirit that lingered inside of him in check in the face of his greatest foe. Finally he let out a sigh and turned to acknowledge Hawke for the first time. "I admit," he finally said, "I did not expect to see you here."

"Nor I you," Fenris said, speaking for the first time since they had arrived at the Circle. The Elf seemed to be struggling with his distaste for the mage, rationalizing in his mind the act of bravery in front of him.

For a moment there was a tense silence before Meredith stepped forward, pushing past Hawke and gesturing for them to follow. They stepped outside of her office into the main hall. "I believe most of what you have to say," she explained as they began to step down into the main corridor, the words causing Hawke's hair to raise in worry, "but I am not yet satisfied."

Hearing her words, the Templars surrounding the group began to move in, but found themselves coming to a halt as a familiar, accented voice called out with such a boom that it reverberated off the stone walls of the Circle's antechamber. "Knight-Commander Meredith," Horacious called as he brought his cane down against the hard floor, sending a loud crack through the air, "I do not think this will be necessary, yes?"

All eyes were suddenly on the man, dressed in fine silks of blue and purple, with long dagged sleeves that nearly draped across the floor. A large sash held the coat of his robe shut, with the light of a dozen torches and candles glinting off the expensive material of his garments. Titus was behind him, no match for his master as he was caked in grime, mud, and what Hawke suspected was blood, the unwashed titan a perfect contrast to the polished, powdered Tevinter.

"What are you doing here, Tevinter?" Meredith howled, pointing at him accusedly and clearing the distance between them in long, dramatic steps.

"Business, yes?" Horacious responded with a cocky arrogance that seemed out of place in front of Meredith and her entourage of armed guards. If he had any sense of fear it did not show. "But first we will see an end to this nonsense about arresting the Champion and his friends." He waved his hands at Hawke and his companions. "You have made enough madness of the city today, we shall not add to it."

There was no color in Meredith's face, her skin now pale as her hair as she stared the fat Tevinter down. She threw a look over her shoulder at Hawke, grimacing before gesturing at the Templars that had surrounded them to back away.

"If you mean to do me harm in the middle of the Circle..." Meredith's words were short of breath but full of menace.

Horacious began to circle around her, waving a dismissive hand. "Dark times for Emerius, indeed," he said, ignnoring the woman as he invoked Kirkwall's ancient, Tevinter name. "That it should be so ruled by the likes of you. One day it shall be reabsorbed into the Imperium, I think, and such madness can come to an end." Meredith watched him like a cornered cat, eyes darting as she struggled to keep a semblance of authority. Hawke fidgeted where he stood, his heart pounding as he thought of Isabela, knowing that to be so close to Meredith during Horacious's self declared endgame was akin to being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "You barbarians have no concept of rule. You keep no sense of order, you have no sense of subtlety, you have no concept of your obligations, and thus I am to be sent here. Pitiful."

Meredith clenched her fists at the man's beratement, but only watched him silently as he approached Anders, sizing the man up with a single long glance.

"A clever game you played, Mage," he complimented, patting Anders on the shoulder with a bear's paw grip. Hawke winced at the exchange. "But it is fortunately over, yes?" He swung about to regard Meredith once more. "But it is over, yes? And how to resolve this situation so we are all pleased, I wonder."

"I don't have-," Meredith started, her voice cool if broken, but Horacious cut her off with a smack of his cane into the ground.

"I am not finished," he roared. Now the full might of Horacious's glare fell upon Hawke, though after only a momentary exchange his lips curled into that unpleasant smile. "You are brave Champion, yes?" The Tevinter tilted his head a bit to the right. "Did you mean to interfere? This was your plan? Keep me from seeking retribution against the Knight-Commander?"

Hawke steeled himself, clenching his fists. "If you mean to harm the Knight-Commander you'll be coming through me."

Horacious nodded slowly. "Just so," he agreed, putting both hands atop his cane in a fold. "You are most fortunate then." Hawke did not respond. "You are brave, but I am a man of my word. I promised reprisal against you if you interfered, and I am glad you have not." Hawke was visibly confused, winning a long laugh from Horacious, who raised a hand and patted him on the shoulder. "Even if you meant to, you have not. Friends do not spurn friends, I think." Horacious swung his gerth around again to face Meredith once more. "I have no intention of harming you, Knight-Commander, though this would be best for Emerius, yes? You mean to have a crown upon that head of yours, I think. But no, I will do no such thing. The fate of Emerius is of no concern to me, even if my heart breaks at the state of it. I have retrieved the money you have borrowed, or most of it. We shall now discuss this matter's final business. Champion if you would not mind, I have private matters of compensation to discuss with the Knight-Commander." Horacious gestured toward Meredith's office. "If you would lead."

Meredith's eyes darted to her office, then back at Titus, who was staring ahead stupidly as though he were Sandal. "We shall talk," Meredith agreed, "if this one stays behind."

"Just so," Horacious agreed, "on some things I am a man of compromise." He waited for no further invitation before climbing the stairs to her office. When he reached the top he turned around once more. "Besides, Titus will insure that your little knights do not harm my friends on their way out, yes?"

Titus's eyes finally came to life, darting at the Templars surrounding Hawke and his companions as he let out a short growl.

Meredith followed Horacious. "Agreed," she said as they entered into the office, the door slamming shut behind them. The Templars backed away from the remaining group as Titus approached the main gateway to the city and swung it open.

With careful, measured steps Hawke left the Circle, eyes darting between the Templars until they were finally outside. Only then in the fetid air of Kirkwall's streets did Hawke finally find himself breathing easily. The door was pulled shut behind them, and all at once Hawke, Aveline, Fenris, Anders, and Varric darted away, not saying a word until they had reached Lowtown.

"I can't say that went how I expected," Varric said when they were far away from the Templars' reach, adequately summing up everyone's feelings on the matter.

Fenris looked back down the road that would lead to the Gallows, shaking his head. "What did I just witness?"

"I'm still not certain that the fat one doesn't mean to take her head," Anders said, scratching at his chin.

"He would never escape alive," Fenris countered. "Even as an Elikdos. I think he was telling the truth."

The tumult on the streets was beginning to die down as Templars were drawn away from their posts. Wherever Cullen had gone he seemed to have issued the order for the forces to back down and return to the Gallows, though around some corners Hawke could still make out the sounds of scuffles and the occasional frightened gasp.

"There is going to be a hell of a mess to clean up after this," Aveline said, leaning against a wall to rest her tired back. "Guards and Templars coming to blows...Elves plucked from their homes..."

"Horacious claims to have found the money," Hawke pointed out, "maybe it'll be forgotten once Meredith can actually deliver on that lottery."

Aveline frowned. "She better," she growled, "we'll have an even larger riot if everyone threw their money at nothing."

At last Hawke's eyes came down upon Anders, who immediately shot his gaze at the ground in a sign of shame. The Champion stepped forward, but did not say anything, the only sound his tired breath.

It was finally Anders that broke the silence. "I'm sorry, Hawke," he finally said without looking up. "I..." he could not finish the sentence.

"I know, Anders," Hawke said, putting a hand on the mage's shoulder. "Next time...just trust me. What's the worst that could happen if you trusted me?"

Anders fidgeted under that, finally looking up and locking eyes with Hawke. The brown orbs shimmered as he tried to chew on what the man had said, but after a long time he nodded slowly. "I'll...try," he finally said, though the words seemed heavier than any boulder. Hawke knew what that meant better than any of the others, and rather than push the matter, he simply nodded back. "I'm sorry," he repeated, earning a squeeze on the shoulder from the Champion.

"It's fine," Hawke insisted, letting go and stepping away. "Let's get the hell out of here."


	31. Chapter 30 - The Lottery

Kirkwall's streets had seen their closest to revolution in as long as Isabela could remember. During the worst of it she had slipped away, climbing posts and pillars as deftly as though it were the mast of her own ship, life time of training on the sea having prepared her for such excursions, deciding it best to wait the conflict out from some abandoned balcony. She had been unable to deny her own curiosity, however, and would sneak as close as she could, spying Templars brawling with guards or occasionally brandishing swords at passing citizens. On one occasion she had even seen a Templar get separated from his group by a pair of city guards, their armor covered in fresh dents from some skirmish earlier in the day. Despite the Templar's pleas he had been knocked onto his back and restrained by one guard while the other smashed his head in with a rock.

Isabela had felt compelled to tell Aveline about that particular one. The guard wielding the rock was going to swing, she'd heard, Aveline having no mercy for a soldier who had stepped so murderously far out of line. Isabela had not heard about the fate of the guard that pinned the Templar down.

When the streets had been cleared and the citizens felt confident enough to return to their jobs the city began to return to its normal state, even if in the backs of their minds the people worried about another outbreak of violence. Aveline had struck a deal with Meredith where the worst offenders in the city guard would be punished or handed over to the Chantry for punishment, though Meredith was obliged to do the same with many of her own Templars.

"It was the perfect business deal I suppose," Aveline had said about it at the Hanged Man over a drink with Hawke and Fenris, "neither of us walked away from the table happy." Isabela snorted in disagreement, always preferring her own deals ended with the disadvantaged party singing a song on their lips as they left the table, too outwitted to realize how outplayed they had been. But, the pirate was forced to admit, there was little hope for a pleasant solution to the mess that had broken out a week ago.

The only redeeming news was that once the blood had stopped flowing the Knight-Commander had issued an official decree naming the day of the lottery. With all the excitement Isabela had nearly forgotten about the damn thing, but to be reminded sent her darting back to her room at the Hanged Man, eagerly searching for her ticket.

The prize was a promised three thousand golden sovereigns and the thought of it was enough to make Isabela's mouth water. A decent enough ship could be purchased for a third of that, a splendid one for a little more than half. The remainder could be spent solely on a crew - one little ticket could have thrown the chains off her wrists and seen her riding the next tide back out onto the ocean, with money to spare.

On the day of the lottery Isabela's hands tightly gripped her lottery ticket as she darted to the Alienage to retrieve Merrill, who was forced to bring a satchel with her to carry all the tickets she'd bought. Merrill seemed just as excited as Isabela, skipping instead of walking to the Gallows where a throng of people eagerly pushed and shoved so that they did not miss the Templars' announcement of the numbers.

It seemed the entire city was there, every man, woman, child and in between holding at least one ticket, some even more than Merrill as they each entertained the notion of a single sequence of numbers changing their lives forever. The Elf at her side seemed to be bouncing with energy.

"If I win I'll buy you a ship," Merrill promised, "maybe not the best one, but definitely one."

"That's sweet, Kitten," Isabela said, her conscience telling her to rescind the offer, but a part of her unable to do so. An eye at Merrill's satchel made her seriously consider the young Elf certainly had the best chance at winning it all.

The Templars had erected a temporary platform at the far end of the Gallows, draped in embroidery and heraldry of the Chantry's white colors and golden sun. Grand Cleric Elthina presided over it all, sitting in a chair at the center while flanked by guards. An entire legion of Templars stood at the base of the platform to keep the crowd a safe distance back, their shields locked together to create a formidable wall.

Meredith was nowhere to be seen, instead a young Templar with fire red hair and a well groomed, pointed beard stood at the forefront, holding a large bag with all of the tickets inside. After some time had passed and the tension of the plaza seemed ready to burst into flame he cleared his throat and called for silence. All at once the entire square went silent, hanging on his every word.

"I want to welcome you to this day's great event," he called out as loud as he could, Templars in high places about the crowd echoing his every word so that everyone could hear, "with the blessing of the Maker and her grace Grand Cleric Elthina, we have three thousand golden sovereigns available to the winner of today's lottery. Most of you are familiar with the rules. Each of you have purchased at least one ticket, and a copy has been placed inside this bag here. I will now reach in and draw three tickets. The first two that I read shall receive consolation prizes including estates and other fine prizes. But of course, the grand prize, the three thousand sovereigns, shall only go to the third ticket that I draw. If I call your number, please present your ticket to Knight-Captain Cullen at the platform here and you shall be escorted into the Circle to retrieve your prize. Maker's luck be upon you all."

The man shook the bag he held several times before reaching in, the breath going out of the audience as he pulled two small slips of paper out. He began to read off the first numbers.

"Twenty seven," he called out, once more the words repeated by the Templars near the crowd. Isabela looked down at the numbers on her ticket: 19, 111, 42, 15, 75. She frowned at that, but shrugged. It did not matter to her anyway, she did not want a house or a cellar of wine, she wanted her ship. Merrill squeeked next to her however, drawing Isabela's eyes over. "Forty-two." Merrill frowned and started looking through her other tickets, then squeaked again. "Eighty three."

"Dammit," Merrill finally said as she shuffled through her slips of paper. "Maybe the next one." Her shoulders sank as she heaved a sigh. "I would have liked a new house though."

The second ticket was similarly disappointing for both, though the two winners darted to the stage with a fiery enthusiasm. One was a lanky youth, tall and thin like he hadn't eaten for days, with most of his teeth missing. Isabela sighed, knowing that the man was likely going to end up back on the streets before the year was done. The other man was portly baker that Isabela recognized from Lowtown, specifically from the boisterous way that he would try to parade his stale bread. He wore a toothy grin that stretched from ear to ear, but had far less energy than the gaunt boy at his side.

The red haired Templar smiled at both of them. "And now the moment we've been waiting for," he said as he shook the bag one more time. Isabela felt the breath draw from her lungs and she clenched her teeth. He hooked one of the slips and pulled it out. In what seemed to be an eternity he unraveled the ticket and looked up. "Our winner is nineteen." Isabela gasped. "One eleven. Forty-seven. Seventeen. Seventy-five." Her vision had blurred after she had heard the second number. Shaking her head she looked to one of the nearby Templars who had been repeating him as they spouted out the winning numbers again: 19, 111, 47, 17, 75. She growled and hissed.

"Maybe they got it wrong," Isabela whined as though that would change the outcome. "Come on."

"Dammit," Merrill repeated, hanging her head sadly. "I really thought I had a shot."

"It appears we have our winner!" the Templar on stage called out. "Come up here front and center."

An enormous sphere of a man hoisted his weight onto the stage, looking so fat that it threatened to collapse the well made woodwork. He stepped with a cane, wearing fine robes of blue and crimson, with a twisted beard with streaks of blue dye ran through it. He was bald atop his head, save for a crown of hair that shared the same blue streaks, his sweaty, red face all smiles as he shook the red haired Templar's hand.

The crowd groaned and grumbled, Isabela amongst them.

"What?" she demanded. "That fatass doesn't even need it, he looks like he's already eaten all the damn food in Kirkwall to begin with!" Merrill gasped at Isabela's side, then giggled into her hand. "What a load of gull shit."

The fat man released the Templar's hand and waved to the audience who seemed none too pleased with the turn of events, his gestures lost on the disappointed.

"And who do we have the honor of awarding the lottery to? If I may ask?" the Templar shouted, attempting to add some theater to it all.

The fat man's smile never wavered as he offered a brief bow of introduction to the Templar. "I am Horacious Elikdos," he said proudly, "and it is an honor, much of an honor, yes."

Isabela threw her ticket to the ground like so many others around her. "Let's go, Kitten," she insisted, turning her back to the Gallows, intent on taking a long trek back to the Hanged Man to drown her defeat in a bottle of fake Orlesian white.

She would have to find a new way to procure her ship, she thought, shaking her head angrily.


	32. Epilogue

Water dripped rhythmically into the half full bucket beneath Anders, a beat of _drip, drip, drip_ the only sound in his clinic as he stared into the broken mirror before him. His face was wet as he ran his hands over his exhausted, gaunt features. He breathed heavily as he looked at his own shattered reflection in the mirror, thinking it somehow fitting, a poetic description of the man that used to be.

Anders was trembling as he felt another mind in his own, feeling it pacing only a step behind him, judging him with the sound of footfalls that weren't actually there. He knew the chastisement was coming, was ready for it, but the silence before the words left him tense, angry.

At long last he heard something in the back of his mind that sounded like a disappointed sigh, could feel the heaviness of a heart that was not his own, roiled and gripped in an equally potent claw of anger. Though there was no breath in the sigh he could still feel it on the back of his neck, a cool air that made the hairs there stand up in compliance.

_We have tried your way_, the voice of Justice boomed into his head, the voice of the spirit calm, though filled with disappointment. _Where is Meredith now? Last I checked her grip on the city remains absolute. The Circle continues to kidnap and jail the innocent, and you continue to hide and nibble like a rat beneath the streets of the city._

Anders shook his head slowly, trying to force the words from his head, but such a mental gesture seemed only to incite the spirit further.

_We are doing this my way._

"We can't," Anders pleaded quietly as he looked into the mirror, throwing another splash of water over his face as though it would wake him from this dream.

_It is the only way._

"I remember asking you something once," Anders said solemnly, "on the streets of Amarinthine. Do you remember?"

_Check your tongue, Mage._

"I remember asking you about the difference between a spirit and a demon."

The roar that shot through Anders's head sounded like a wounded lion, a guttural boom that echoed against the walls of his mind and would have shaken the room if Justice had been in any physical form.

"I think we've found your desire."

_Do not presume to lecture me on things you do not know. You speak of perversions of desire, I challenge you with the same. Should justice not be the lust of any being? To see it so openly and refuse to defy it? And you dare to call my wishes, my drive to be perverted? You are craven._

"I know."

_You have given in to sloth._

"I know." Anders had heard the words before, he had no strength left to argue them regardless of the truth or lack thereof that lay within him. By now many of the abuses were merely words to the mage, their intent behind them lost by overuse and Justice's habit of slipping into a toxic rage.

All at once the reckless clack of thunder that had been Justice's rage disappeared like mist in the wind, leaving the far more terrifying feeling of the spirit's cool, calculating calm.

_You have had your chance, Mage. Your words and plots fail like a gull against a stone wall. I will compliment you, your creativity. But first we shall need the ingredients._

Anders could feel the lure of Justice's violent intentions, the view of his mind's eye swept through a tunnel of trees and hills until it rested over the quarry known as the Bone Pit. Fire, death, agony and war raged at the edges of his vision, filling his mind with red. He knew nothing but at the same time knew everything Justice had planned. His fingers scraped at the edges of his temples as though he intended to claw the spirit out of his mind.

"You can't force me to do this," he said meekly, his voice a broken plea.

_I can,_ Justice insisted. _And I will._


End file.
